L 


THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


INIA. 


The  Fortune  of  a   Day 


Fortune  of  a  Day 

By 

GRACE   ELLERY 
CHANNING-STETSON 


UNIVERSITY 

Of 


CHICAGO 

HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  COMPANY 

MDCCCC 


COPYRIGHT     igOO,    BY 
HERBERT  S.    STONE   &   CO. 


3537 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

Some  one  touched  Beppe's  arm,  in 
the  grey  dawn,  and  he  awoke  with  a 
start  from  dozing  against  Rosellina's 
flank,  and  mechanically  lifted  his  hat, 
while  glancing  about  for  the  "fare" 
who  had  disturbed  his  slumbers.  Then 
his  eye  fell  upon  Margherita,  and  he 
started  again,  and  his  heart  began  to 
thump  against  the  shabby  coat. 

"Per  Bacco!  little  one — you,  so 
early?  What  do  you  want?" 

"To  go  down  there,"  answered  Mar 
gherita,  firmly,  pointing  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  valley.  ' ' To  see  the  world. ' ' 

"Per  Bacco!" 

Beppe  was  too  astonished  to  say 
more.  He  looked  at  the  little  figure 
before  him,  resting  upon  its  crutch, 
3 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

and  he,  who  knew  the  Margherita  best 
of  all,  hardly  recognised  her.  Above 
the  fiesta  gown  and  pale  rose-coloured 
kerchief  her  face  showed  white  with 
its  startling  determination. 

''Has  some  one,  then,  left  you  a  for 
tune,  Margherita?"  he  asked,  with  not 
unkindly  irony. 

"Yes,  the  signora  who  made  the  pic 
ture  of  me.  She  paid  me  last  night 
twenty  whole  francs,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  then  to  see  the  world." 

Beppe  was  silent  again  in  sheer 
astonishment.  Such  a  thing  had  never 
happened  before  in  all  the  years  he 
had  driven  cabs  up  and  down  the  hills. 
He  always  knew  the  Margherita  was 
not  like  the  others — ah  no!  but  that 
such  an  idea  as  this  should  come  to 
even  Margherita's  head  was  beyond 
belief. 

"Child,"  he  said,  roughly,  "money 
4 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

is  fire  and  food  next  winter,  and  you 
have  not  too  much  of  either,  and  the 
straw  work  getting  worse  every  day. 

"I  shall  be  hungry  and  cold  any 
way — when  it  is  gone;  but  if  I  could 
see  once — just  once — what  it  is  like 
down  there,  I  should  have  that  to  re 
member  always." 

Beppe  slipped  the  feed-bag  off  Ro- 
sellina's  nose. 

"Jump  in,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "Hand 
me  the  crutch;  up  with  you."  He 
gathered  the  reins,  and  mounted  to  his 
own  seat.  "Are  you  ready?" 

Margherita  nodded.  She  sat  bolt 
upright,  with  her  crutch  beside  her,  and 
the  colour  blazing  and  fading  in  her 
cheeks. 

"Believe  me!"  muttered  Beppe, 
"that  signora  was  no  fool.  There  are 
not  two  pairs  of  eyes  like  that  in  Tus 
cany." 

Margherita  breathed  in  gasps  as  the 
5 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

carriage  rolled  down  the  winding  Way. 
She  had  never  been  beyond  the  Piazza. 
There  were  old  men  and  women  in  the 
commune  who  had  never  been  farther. 
Only  the  sturdy  ones  who  could  tramp 
the  miles,  or  those  of  the  restless 
younger  generation  who  seemed  born 
with  the  fever  of  wandering,  which  had 
never  attacked  their  ancestors,  or  the 
well-to-do  among  them  (and  they  were 
few),  went,  at  great  intervals,  to  buy  or 
barter  in  "the  city."  There  was  no 
other  city  in  the  world  to  them.  With 
Margherita's  back,  walking  was  impos 
sible,  and  certainly  nobody  else  ever 
dreamed  of  deliberately  paying  out 
good  money  to  drive  anywhere.  That 
belonged  to  foreigners  and  the  "sig- 
nori." 

In  the  wonder  of  it,  Beppe  left  the 
way  to  Rosellina,  who  could  be  trusted 
to  know  it,  and  turned  sideways  on  his 
seat. 

6 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

"Up  there — what  do  they  say  to 
this?" 

"They  do  not  know.  I  slipped  out 
pian  piano,  so  that  no  one  heard.  I 
knew  you  would  be  at  the  Piazza." 

Beppe  whistled.  "What,  you  are 
doing  it  under  the  plate !  Santa  Maria ! 
take  my  advice ;  never  tell  them  of  all 
that  money." 

"They  know.  Emilia  was  there 
when  the  signora  gave  it  to  me,  and 
they  all  came  in  to  talk  about  it. 
Emilia  wanted  me  to  put  it  by  for  oil 
and  carbone  next  winter,  and  Fiametta 
said  she  would  buy  shoes  and  flannels. 

"One  might  do  worse;  flannels  and 
carbone  and  oil  are  good  in  the  cold 
weather." 

"The  Costanza  said  they  were  all  old 
fools;  a  red  gown,  made  with  a  point 
like  the  signora' s,  would  be  what  she 
would  buy." 

"  Costanza' s  head  is  like  her  heels — 
7 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

the  lightest  in  the  Piazza,"  grunted 
Beppe,  contemptuously. 

"But  old  Marianna, "  continued  the 
girl,  "said  one  would  think,  to  hear 
them,  money  were  made  just  to  spend ; 
she  said  put  it  in  a  stocking  or  give  it 
to  a  good  neighbour  to  keep." 

"H— m— m!  And  with  all  that 
good  advice  what  put  it  into  your  head, 
piccina,  to  see  the  world?" 

The  spot  upon  Margherita's  cheek 
burned  red. 

"I  have  heard  it  is  so  beautiful. 
Costanza  went  once  —  in  the  Carni- 
vale ;  and  there  is  no  one  to  take  me, 
like  the  Costanza.  I  did  want  to 
see — ' ' 

Beppe  coughed  two  or  three  times, 
and  moved  uneasily  on  the  seat. 

"If   I   had  known,   Margheritina,  I 

would  have  taken  you.     Though  the 

carriage  is  not  mine,  I  have  some  francs 

laid  by — a  handful.     But  you  are  such 

8 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

a  quiet  little  one,  who  could  know  you 
had  all  that  in  your  head?" 

' '  Cesare  says  on  festas  it  is  a  para- 
diso,"  breathed  Margherita,  softly,  her 
dreamy  eyes  gazing  as  if  she  already 
beheld  it. 

This  time  there  was  a  scarlet  spot  on 
Beppe's  cheek,  and  he  frowned. 

"Cesare!  It  is  that  good-for-noth 
ing,  then,  who  puts  ideas  in  your 
head?" 

"He  is  good  to  his  mother,  and  he 
is  good  to  me." 

"Good  to  you?  Who  would  be  any 
thing  but  good  to  you?"  retorted 
Beppe,  gruffly,  "all  alone  in  the  world, 
and  with  a  back  like  that.  Why  does 
he  not  settle  down  like  others,  in 
stead  of  running  to  the  city  all  the 
time?  No,  no,  a  face  like  that  spoils  a 
lad;  he  is  too  handsome  to  do  any 
good  in  the  world.  Not  that  I  say 
anything  against  seeing  the  world  a 

9 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

little — "  He  straightened  himself  up 
and  looked  important.  "I  have  seen 
it  myself  in  my  day.  I  was  never 
one  of  those  who  think  Fiesole  is 
all  the  good  God  made.  But  as  for 
Cesare — he  and  Costanza  will  make 
a  fine  pair;  not  that  I  would  advise 
the  Costanza  to  get  her  black  gown 
ready  till  the  day  before  they  go  to 
the  priest." 

"He  danced  only  once  with  her 
at  the  Fair,"  said  Margherita,  very 
low,  while  her  slight  hands  gripped 
the  crutch  as  if  they  would  dent 
it. 

"  Ch£,  che — one  does  not  waste 
money  on  maids  for  nothing,  and  I 
myself  heard  her  ask  him  to  bring  her 
some  beads  from  the  city,  and  he 
laughed  and  never  refused.  She  will 
spend  his  soldi  prettily.  Altro!" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders — "we  won't 
quarrel  over  the  lad ;  leave  that  to  the 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

girls."  And  he  drew  himself  up  ex 
ceedingly  straight  and  began  to  hum 
an  air  with  great  indifference. 

"  O  mia    .    .    .    come  sta  ? 
Oggi  sto  bene,  ma  domani  chi  sa." 

"I  am  an  old  fool — an  old  fool!"  he 
thought. 

They  rode  in  silence  down  the  his 
toric  Way,  winding  between  the  walls 
of  stately  villas  and  gardens,  over  which 
fragmentary  marbles  peered — nymphs 
and  goddesses  and  gods.  Beppe  knew 
something  of  these  stone  pages  of  his 
tory,  but  Margherita  knew  nothing. 
Seventeen  years  comprised  all  her  past, 
and  the  future  stretched  before  her  ex 
actly  like  unto  it,  a  future  of  intermi 
nable  straw-plaiting  in  the  doorway  of 
the  same  little  house  beyond  high 
Fiesole,  with  the  same  struggle  sum 
mer  and  winter  to  keep  food  in  the 
mouth,  shoes  on  the  feet,  and  a  drop  of 
oil  in  the  lamp  to  plait  more  straw  by. 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

But  what  was  the  future  to  her  now? 
This  day  was  hers. 

They  were  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
already,  following  the  slender  ribbon 
of  the  Mugnone. 

"The  Queen  of  England  stays 
there,"  Beppe  gruffly  remarked,  point 
ing  his  whip  towards  the  Villa  Palmieri. 
Had  he  known  enough  to  call  it  the 
Villa  Decamerone,  what  would  that 
have  meant  to  Margherita?  As  lit 
tle  as  to  say,  "Yonder  is  the  studio 
where  Arnold  Bocklin  starved  on 
beans  and  painted  for  many  a  year," 
or  "These  very  stones  Dante  walked 
on  and  the  great  Lorenzo  clattered 
over. ' ' 

All  at  once  Beppe  drew  up  his  reins 
and  halted  Rosellina. 

"Listen!  Do  you  hear  that,  Mar 
gherita?" 

A  sound  of  many  mingled  sounds, 
strange  as  the  voice  of  the  sea  to  inland 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

ears,  thrilled  through  Margherita's 
veins. 

"That  is  the  world."  He  straight 
ened  his  shabby  hat,  drew  himself 
erect,  and  flourished  his  whip,  starting 
Rosellina  into  an  ungainly  canter. 
This  was  the  proper  manner  of  enter 
ing  the  city.  Margherita  had  a  dizzy 
vision  of  many  houses,  carriages, 
horses,  and  people  as  the  cab  clattered 
through  the  barrier,  Beppe  holding 
up  both  hands,  palms  open,  in  an  ex 
pressive  assurance  to  the  guards  that 
there  was  not  a  soldo's  worth  of  cheese 
or  a  flask  of  vino  rosso  in  the  carriage 
trying  to  escape  honest  taxes. 

Proud,  yet  fearful,  Margherita  looked 
up  at  the  rows  of  frowning  palaces. 

"If  the  Costanza  could  see  me  now," 
she  thought. 

"These  are  the  houses  of  the  sig- 
nori,"  said  Beppe, — "people  who  lie 
abed  till  noon,  eat  out  of  silver  plates, 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

and  would  as  soon  swallow  a  gold-piece 
as  I  a  fig,  and  never  feel  it.  Ma  ch£, 
these  are  nothing;  wait  till  you  see  the 
palace  of  the  King.  But  first  I  will 
show  you  something  better  than  any 
king's  palace,  and  that  belongs  to  us 
as  much  as  to  anybody." 

He  touched  up  Rosellina,  and  at 
her  ungainly  gallop  she  whirled  them 
through  the  echoing  stone  alleys  and 
across  an  open  square,  where  Beppe 
dexterously  reined  her  in  with  much 
suddenness  upon  her  haunches,  in  the 
manner  learned  from  his  Florentine 
brethren  of  the  cab. 

"EccoRJ" 

"O  bella!  O  bellissima!"  was  all 
Margherita  could  sigh,  her  eyes  climb 
ing  from  the  mass  of  rose  and  white 
and  fair  colored  marbles  of  the  vast 
cathedral  to  where  a  hundred  doves 
circled  about  the  fairer  tower  which 
has  no  rival  in  the  whole  round  world. 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

"He  who  built  that  was  once  our 
own  little  Giotto,"  said  Beppe,  "a  boy 
like  any  one  of  Pietro's  eight  or  Maso's 
up  there  in  Fiesole.  Get  out  and  go 
in,  Maigherita;  it  is  the  good  God's — 
not  like  the  houses  of  the  signori — and 
He  is  always  at  home.  In  there  it  is 
fine,  and  the  priests  say  a  little  prayer 
never  does  any  harm." 

He  lifted  her  out,  and  watched  her 
go  up  the  great  steps,  his  weather- 
beaten  face  softening  strangely,  as  the 
grim  old  Florentine  palaces  do  under 
the  late  sunglow.  As  the  heavy  leath 
ern  door-curtain  fell  behind  the  young 
girl,  he  crossed  himself. 

''There  is  no  more  religion  any 
where,"  he  thought;  "but  for  such 
as  her  the  saints  ought  to  do  some 
thing  still."  Then  with  a  lofty  air  he 
beckoned  to  the  vendor  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  tower  with  corn-filled 
cornucopias.  He  handed  the  man  a 
15 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

soldo  in  exchange  for  one  of  the  yellow 
papers,  not  without  grumbling  that  a 
centesimo  would  be  liberal  for  such 
foolishness  as  the  cornucopia  con 
tained  ;  whereupon  the  vendor  held  up 
both  hands  and  bade  Beppe  reflect 
upon  the  iniquity  of  taxes  and  the 
size  of  the  standing  army,  solely  main 
tained  by  his  own  disinterested  efforts 
in  the  sale  of  cornucopias.  Beppe's 
response  was  an  eloquent  shrug — a 
Tuscan  shrug,  differing  in  form  and 
substance  of  eloquence  from  a  Roman 
or  Neapolitan  kindred  token — ere  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  large  door 
by  which  Margherita  should  emerge. 

Meanwhile,  her  crutch  tapping  step 
by  step  on  the  marble  floor,  she  stood 
beneath  the  mighty  dome  in  the  dim, 
vast  space.  Twenty  years  Brunelleschi 
gave  to  round  that  dome,  and  Mar 
gherita  took  it  for  the  work  of  God 
merely.  Neither  constraint  nor  fear 
16 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

oppressed  her.  Here,  as  Beppe  said, 
the  child  of  the  Church  "belonged"  as 
truly  as  the  elegantly  dressed  signora 
beside  whom  she  presently  kneeled  to 
make  the  little  prayer  recommended 
of  Beppe.  It  resolved  itself  into  the 
same  words  over  and  over:  "O  Ma 
donna!  Lord  God!  Jesus  Christ,  and 
all  the  saints  beside,  I  thank  you  for 
letting  me  see  the  world." 

"Santa  Maria!"  murmured  Beppe 
when  Margherita  appeared  again  at  the 
top  of  the  marble  steps;  "if  the  sig 
nora  could  see  her  now!" 

"I  made  also  a  prayer  for  you, 
Beppe,"  said  the  young  girl,  looking 
at  him  with  her  eyes  still  full  of  splen 
dor  and  dreams. 

"Thank  you,  Margherita,"  stam 
mered  he;  "they  will  hear  you  if 
anybody."  And  he  thrust  the  cornu 
copia  into  her  hand,  and  turned  to 
Rosellina  to  hide  his  emotion.  "Who 
'7 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day' 

knows,"  he  thought;  "after  all,  who 
knows — " 

"Per  Bacco!"  ejaculated  a  voice 
behind  him.  "That  is  the  prettiest 
face  in  all  Florence.  What  a  pity — " 

Beppe  wheeled.  Two  signori,  paus 
ing  in  their  promenade,  were  gazing 
where  Margherita,  brilliant  and  laugh 
ing  with  delight,  stood  with  her  arms 
full  of  doves  and  a  hundred  glancing 
wings,  eager  bills,  and  bright  eyes 
flashing  about  her. 

"Altro,"  said  the  second  gentleman, 
"with  a  face  like  that,  what  does  the 
rest  matter?  All  the  saints — what 
eyes!" 

Some  one  else  turned,  too,  at  the 
words,  a  slender  lad  wearing  his  shabby 
cap  debonairly.  There  was  an  ex 
clamation  : 

"Santa  Maria!  it  is  the  little  Mar 
gherita!" 

"Cesare!'      The  yellow  cornucopia, 

18 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

with  all  its  grain,  fell  at  her  feet,  a 
whirl  of  doves  rose  startled  through  the 
air,  and  Margherita  stood  paling  and 
flushing  alternately,  her  wide  eyes 
shining  on  the  newcomer. 

He,  on  his  part,  remained  staring  at 
her,  repeating  to  himself  the  words  of 
the  signori,  "The  prettiest  face  in 
Florence!"  How  had  he  ever  helped 
noticing,  in  fact,  how  pretty  she  was — 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  Piazza,  by  all 
odds. 

"May  Cesare  come,  too?"  Mar 
gherita  interrogated  Beppe  timidly. 

"It  costs  no  more,"  answered 
Beppe,  drily. 

Cesare  waited  for  no  further  invita 
tion.  He  was  consumed  with  curiosity 
to  know  how  Margherita  came  to  be 
there — a  miracle  whose  magnitude  he 
was  abundantly  able  to  estimate. 
Moreover,  a  ride  in  a  carriage  is  not  to 
be  sneezed  at  at  any  time ;  and  finally, 
19 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

the  Margherita  was  certainly  very,  very 
pretty,  with  all  that  color  in  her  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  like  lamps. 

"Tell  me,  Margherita  mia,"  he  be 
gan  at  once,  "what  miracle  brought 
you  here?  For  believe  me,  I  should 
have  looked  to  see  Our  Lady  herself  as 
soon." 

"It  was  the  signora's  money.  What 
you  said  is  all  true,  Cesare ;  it  is  a  para- 
diso"  She  looked  at  him  so  that  he 
felt  himself  all  amazed  and  dizzy  again. 

"Diavolo,  little  one,  but  you  have 
courage!"  he  said  aloud.  To  himself 
he  kept  thinking,  "Who  would  ever 
have  believed  the  Margherita  had  it  in 
her.  She  has  twice  the  spirit  of  that 
big  Costanza,  who  would  never  venture 
in  a  whole  year  of  festas ;  and  if  her 
back  is  not  so  straight  as  some,  better 
a  crooked  back  than  a  wooden  head" — 
which  meant  that  big  Costanza  again. 

"If  you  think  this  a  paradise,  Mar- 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

gherita, "  he  said  aloud,  "you  should 
see  it  to-night.  It  is  the  day  of  the 
Statuto,  and  there  will  be  illumina 
tions." 

But  Margherita  scarcely  heard  him. 
The  long  narrow  streets  of  unimagi 
nable  splendors,  shop-windows  glitter 
ing  with  luxuries,  stately  buildings, 
richly  dressed  people,  passed  before 
her  eyes  like  phantasmagoria  of  a 
dream ;  a  soundless  tumult  in  her  heart 
shut  out  the  very  sound  of  words.  She 
had  been  a  dreamer  all  her  life,  unlike 
her  active,  hardy  companions  of  the 
village;  she  was  dizzy  now  with  the 
coming  true  of  all  her  dreams  together 
— oh,  more  than  all  her  dreams!" 

Beppe,  however,  driving  in  silence, 
his  old  eyes  gazing  straight  ahead, 
heard  every  word  that  fell  from  the 
lad's  lips — all  the  chatter  of  events, 
the  little  city  anecdotes,  the  bits  of 
town-gathered  wit  and  wisdom  which 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

the  boy  had  picked  up  in  those  days  of 
absence  deplored  of  the  home  com 
mune,  and  which  he  now  set  forth 
brightly  for  Margherita's  entertain 
ment,  deferentially  for  Beppe's.  Nor 
was  that  deference  lost  upon  the  griz 
zled  cabman,  who  had  his  own  ideas  of 
manners  and  modesty.  He  kept  an 
unrevealing  dumbness,  quite  unlike 
Margherita's,  which  was  of  a  kind  to 
cheapen  every  other  form  of  response. 
All  up  and  down  the  narrow  streets  he 
drove  them  grimly — past  the  open 
markets,  by  the  vanities  of  gold  and 
millinery,  out  to  the  Cascine,  where  at 
last  Rosellina  took  a  tranquil  place  in 
the  line  of  liveried  turnouts  comprising 
the  high  life  of  Florence.  And  oh, 
comedy  of  the  human  heart !  To  Mar- 
gherita  it  seemed  a  million  times  less 
wonderful  and  unthinkable  to  be  riding 
among  dukes  and  princes  of  blood 
royal  than  to  be  riding  beside  Cesare, 

22 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

his  shabby  jacket  brushing  her  faded 
gown,  his  supple  brown  hands  and 
laughing  eyes  talking  as  ceaselessly  as 
his  merry  tongue,  and  all  for  her,  to 
her,  for  her  pleasure  and  delight. 
Scarcely  did  she  note  when  they  left 
the  stream  of  grand  dukes,  princelets, 
and  contessinas  to  flash  from  out  a 
maze  of  darkening  streets  upon  a 
bridge.  Beneath  that  bridge  some 
thing  went  by  in  a  golden  glitter  under 
the  low  sun,  and  the  bridge  was  a-glit- 
ter,  also,  with  the  silver  and  gold  of 
jewelers'  booths. 

"The  Arno!"  said  Cesare,  proudly. 
"They  say  this  bridge  was  here — who 
knows  how  long  ago?  My  father  and 
my  grandfather  saw  it." 

More  beautiful  to  Margherita  than 
the  river  or  the  bridge  seemed  the 
treasure  of  gold  and  silver  trinkets, 
such  as  her  eyes  had  never  seen. 
Cesare's  eyes  followed  her  wistfully 
23 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

admiring  glance,  and  his  hand  stole 
once  or  twice  to  his  pocket  to  be 
withdrawn  again,  with  an  odd  look  of 
embarrassment. 

"The  palace  of  the  King,"  Beppe 
was  saying  the  next  minute,  and  there 
in  fact  was  the  great  mass  of  the  Pitti 
frowning  down  upon  them.  Guards  in 
scarlet  stood  before  its  awful  doors. 

"They  say  there  are  wonders  to  be 
seen  in  there — rooms  and  rooms  full  of 
nothing  but  pictures,  for  one  thing.  I 
brought  the  signora  often  to  see  them. 
Who  knows,  Margherita,  perhaps  yours 
is  there  now." 

"I  went  in  once,"  said  Cesare,  "but 
the  signora's  picture  was  not  there 
then — nothing  half  so  pretty.  I  saw 
them  all — faded  old  ones,  for  the  most 
part,  not  half  so  beautiful  as  those  one 
sees  in  the  windows  on  the  Lung' 
Arno.  What  is  beautiful  is  the  gar 
den  yonder,  the  Boboli;  Margherita 
24 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

ought  to  step  in  a  moment,  Beppe — 
beautiful  long  walks  and  statues  and 
fountains  and  seats." 

"Go  on  in,  child,"  was  Beppe's 
response.  "You  don't  mind  going 
alone  for  five  minutes?  If  Cesare  here 
will  hold  Rosellina,  I'll  just  stretch  my 
own  legs  a  little." 

' '  Volontieri, ' '  replied  Cesare,  po 
litely,  though  with  some  secret  won 
der,  seeing  that  Rosellina  was  known  to 
stand  faster  than  the  very  stones  by 
the  hour  together.  Beppe,  however, 
handed  him  the  reins  and  made  a  great 
fuss  stamping  about  on  the  pavement, 
while  the  slender  figure,  so  swift  in 
spite  of  its  crutch,  was  disappearing 
under  the  arch  of  the  garden.  Then  he 
resumed  his  seat  with  a  brief  "Grazie, " 
but  did  not  offer  to  relieve  Cesare  of 
the  reins;  instead  he  slowly  proceeded 
to  light  a  long  ten-centesimi  cigar. 

"There  is  one  who  has  a  heart,"  he 
25 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

said,  gruffly,  between  puffs,  nodding 
vaguely  backwards.  "And  a  head  as 
well.  One  who  would  do  what  she 
has  done  to-day  can  think  for  herself 
and  others,  too.  There  isn't  another 
in  all  Fiesole  who  would  have  the 
courage. ' ' 

"You  have  reason,  Beppe, "  an 
swered  Cesare,  with  warmth.  "My 
mother  always  says  she  has  the  best 
heart  and  the  quickest  fingers  at  the 
straw  work  of  any  girl  in  Fiesole. 

"Your  mother  is  a  woman  of  sense. 
All  Fiesole  knows  that.  As  for  this 
one,  he  who  gets  a  sposa  with  a  heart 
and  a  face  like  that  has  not  much  to  be 
pitied  for." 

"In  fact,  the  Margherita  is  very 
pretty — " 

"Pretty!       Up    there    they     know 

nothing;  that  fat  Costanza  passes  for 

pretty,  but   in   the   city  one  sees  the 

difference.     You   heard  the  signori — 

26 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

and  all  the  world  stares  at  the  child. 
The  truth  is,  she  is  thrown  away  up 
there;  she  was  made  for  the  city. 
Altro — if  I  were  younger  myself — " 

"ChZ,"  protested  Cesare,  but  rather 
faintly;  "you  are  young  enough  yet, 
Beppe." 

"No,  no;  I  am  too  old  to  change, 
even  for  the  Margherita.  What  would 
you?"  He  shrugged  deprecatingly. 
"To  give  up  driving  after  twenty 
years  of  it,  and  settle  down  in  a  little 
shop — "  Cesare  looked  up  with  a 
start,  but  Beppe  paid  no  heed.  "Not 
but  that  a  little  shop,  with  butter,  eggs, 
and  good  fresh  milk  to  sell,  and  the 
folk  coming  to  buy  and  say  a  word 
over  the  counter,  and  maybe  later  on 
a  little podere  of  one's  own,  with  one's 
own  cow  or  two  and  chickens,  just  be 
yond  Fiesole,  to  supply  the  shop — that 
isn't  so  bad — with  the  city  to  walk 
about  in,  in  the  evenings,  too.  Yes, 
27 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

yes,  if  I  were  younger  that  is  what  I 
would  do  with  the  handful  of  francs 
I've  laid  by.  With  a  face  like  Mar- 
gherita's  behind  the  counter,  buyers 
would  be  plenty,  and  the  child  has  so 
much  gentilezza!  As  for  being  quick  at 
figures — altro!  Yes,  yes,  if  I  were 
younger!  but  after  driving  cabs  for 
twenty  years,  one's  habits  are 
formed — "  He  shrugged  again. 

"In  fact,"  said  Cesare,  faintly,  "it 
would  be  a  sacrifice." 

' '  A  sacrifice ! ' '  Beppe  puffed  till  he 
was  completely  enveloped  in  smoke, 
out  of  which  his  voice  came  muffled. 
"There  are  some  things  one  can't  do. 
But  I've  been  thinking,"  he  added, 
"lately,  there  is  all  that  money  doing 
no  good  instead  of  making  more 
money  as  it  ought;  and  here  is  the 
Margherita  working  her  hands  off  at 
the  straw  work,  which  gets  worse  every 
day,  and  I  without  a  chick  or  child  of 
28 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

my  own.  If  only  she  had  a  good  hus 
band  to  look  after  things  a  little,  it 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  her,  and  for 
me,  too.  I  could  put  those  francs  to 
use,  and  not  wake  up  every  time  a 
pebble  rattles  for  fear  of  thieves. 
After  all,  I  have  seen  the  child  grow 
up  as  if  she  were  my  own,  and  I  wish 
her  as  well — or  nearly.  Even  the 
priest  says  she  is  a  pearl.  He  who 
marries  her  would  not  need  to  be  afraid 
of  Paradise;  she  will  take  care  of  him 
here  and  his  soul  after.  If  he  were 
good  to  her,  that  is."  He  paused 
ominously. 

"Who  could  be  anything  but  good 
to  the  Margherita?" 

"Some  devil,"  answered  Beppe, 
grimly. 

There  was  a  pause,  Beppe  puffing 
fiercely.  Then  Cesare  spoke: 

"Beppe — "  His  voice  was  almost 
timid,  but  his  handsome  eyes  looked 
29 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

frankly  into  those  turned  keenly  on 
him.  He  drew  a  small  package  diffi 
dently  from  his  pocket  and  displayed 
the  contents. 

"All  that  you  have  said  there  is  very 
true,  and — I've  been  thinking — I 
should  like  to  give  these  to  the  Mar- 
gherita.  She  hasn't  any — I  happened 
to  buy  these — "  He  broke  off  with  a 
look  of  mingled  embarrassment  and 
humour.  "What  do  you  say?" 

"Altro, "  returned  Beppe,  bluntly. 
"I  say  not  everything  finds  its  way 
to  the  pocket  it  was  bought  for. 
Why  shouldn't  you  give  it  to  the 
child?" 

"It  isn't  good  enough  for  her,"  said 
Cesare,  regretfully  contemplating  the 
gift.  "For  another  it  would  not  mat 
ter,  but  for  the  Margherita — " 

"She  will  think  it  good  enough," 
interposed  Beppe,  gruffly.  "Here  she 
comes  now."  He  busied  himself  tuck- 
30 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

ing  the  worn  robe  about  him,  and  left 
to  Cesare  the  task  of  assisting  the 
young  girl. 

"The  nightingales  were  singing  in 
there,"  said  Margherita  only,  whose 
words  were  few,  but  whose  eyes  said 
volumes. 

"Aye,  they  do  sing  well,"  assented 
Beppe,  "those  little  things.  It  goes 
to  my  heart  to  eat  them ;  only  a  soldo 
apiece  you  give  for  them  —  whole 
strings  of  them,  and  such  little  things, 
a  mouthful,  and  all  that  music  gone 
down  your  throat." 

"Poor  things!"  responded  Cesare, 
sympathetically.  "But  one  must  say 
that  they  are  good  eating,  with  olives 
and  a  leaf  of  bay  on  each  side  of  their 
little  bodies  and  a  scrap  of  toast  out 
side — a  mouthful  for  their  little  heads 
and  two  for  their  bodies.  Speaking  of 
mouthfuls,  Beppe,  if  we  drove  to  a  res 
taurant!  Margherita  here  has  eaten 
31 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

nothing  but  a  crust  since  daybreak,  and 
Rosellina  will  like  a  bite  as  well  as  we. 
I  have  a  friend  who  keeps  a  place — " 

"You  have  a  head  on  your  shoul 
ders,  Cesare."  Beppe  nodded  approv 
ingly.  "As  for  me,  I  have  an  appe 
tite  of  beasts ;  no  nightingales  for  me, 
but  a  good  risotto  or  macaroni." 

It  was  on  the  way  to  the  restaurant 
that  Cesare  laid  a  little  package  in 
Margherita's  lap,  saying,  with  the  air 
of  a  young  prince  bestowing  a  coronet : 

"Ecco,  Margherita,  a  nothing-at- 
all;  but  it  will  keep  you  from  forget 
ting  the  day  you  saw  the  world." 

Margherita  clasped  the  string  of 
golden  glass  beads  dumbly;  she  did 
not  break  out  into  loud  ecstasy  as 
Costanza  would  have  done,  but  Cesare 
was  not  disappointed  for  that. 

"  Grazie,     grazie,     Cesare  —  tanto, 
tanto!"  she  murmured  at  last.     They 
were  prettier  than  any  girl's  in  Fiesole. 
32 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

What  would  Costanza  say — Costanza, 
who  had  asked  him  to  bring  her  such 
an  one? 

Beppe,  looking  sedately  elsewhere, 
smiled  the  first  smile  of  that  day. 
"That  settles  the  big  Costanza.  One 
does  not  spend  soldi  on  maids  for 
nothing,"  he  thought,  with  grim  satis 
faction. 

Meanwhile  Cesare  was  protesting 
gaily.  "It  is  nothing,  Margherita, 
nothing.  Altro !  put  it  on,  and  it  will 
be  better."  And  as  they  were  passing 
through  the  dim  Way  of  the  Red  Gate 
it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  in 
the  dusk  he  made  a  strangely  awkward 
piece  of  work  of  it,  and  was  very  long 
fastening  the  clasp  at  the  back  of  her 
neck.  To  tell  the  truth,  he  felt  a  sud 
den  overwhelming  desire  to  put  a  kiss 
just  under  the  necklace  where  all  the 
soft  curls  met.  Never  had  he  known 
such  a  desire  before  and  resisted  it, 
33 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

but  a  timidity  wholly  new  seized  him, 
and  with  a  muttered  "Scustf"  he  with 
drew  his  hands  from  the  beads,  and  sat 
with  cheeks  more  burning  than  Mar- 
gherita's,  biting  his  lips. 

"She  isn't  like  the  others,"  he 
thought,  with  mingled  pleasure  and 
pain. 

At  the  restaurant  he  recovered  all 
his  easy  grace,  and  did  the  honours  of 
the  place  with  an  air  which  dazzled 
Margherita  to  whom  this  glimpse  of 
high  life  was  a  little  disconcerting. 
She  ate  her  risotto  and  sipped  her 
glass  of  thin  red  wine  almost  dumbly. 
Cesare,  however,  was  in  spirits  for 
all  three,  and  filled  his  companions' 
glasses  with  the  manner  of  a  lord 
of  the  feast.  Rosellina  meanwhile 
resumed  her  breakfast  precisely  at 
the  point  where  she  had  left  it  off; 
though  a  female,  Rosellina  was  a  phi 
losopher. 

34 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

"Put  up  your  money,  little  one," 
said  Cesare,  with  a  proprietary  air, 
when  Margherita  timidly  brought  out 
the  handkerchief  in  which  her  fortune 
was  tied.  ' '  I  have  a  few  soldi  myself. ' ' 
He  laughed  to  hide  some  embarrass 
ment,  for  to  say  truth  he  had  forgotten 
about  the  beads,  and  his  pocket  was 
nearly  empty.  He  went  to  arrange  the 
matter  with  his  friend,  but  Beppe  fol 
lowed. 

"See  here,  Cesare,"  he  interposed, 
touching  him  on  the  arm,  "I  pay  for 
this.  Santa  Maria,  man,  you  spent 
half  a  lira  at  least  on  those  beads,  and 
it's  only  the  foreigners  who  are  made 
of  money.  A  franc  and  a  half,  is  it? 
Altro!  No  one  can  say  we  haven't 
lived  like  signori  to-day."  He  slipped 
the  money  into  the  lad's  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Beppe,"  said  Cesare, 
gratefully.  "The  truth  is,  I  forgot 
about  the  beads,  and  half  a  lira  does 
35 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

make  a  hole  in  one's  pocket — not  that 
I  would  begrudge  the  Margherita  a 
whole  lira  if  I  had  it,"  tor  by  this  time 
Cesare  had  quite  forgotten  for  whom 
the  beads  were  originally  bought. 

"And  now  for  the  illumination," 
said  Beppe;  "not  that  they  need 
illuminate  if  they  saw  your  eyes,  little 
one."  For  what  with  the  wine,  excite 
ment,  and  gaiety  Margherita' s  eyes 
from  lamps  were  become  stars. 

Cesare,  reading  in  the  glance  of  his 
friend  that  he  agreed  with  Beppe,  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  jealous  haste  to 
get  them  all  started.  He  insisted  there 
would  be  no  standing-room  left  on  the 
Piazza,  and  fairly  drove  them  before 
him  to  the  cab,  in  spite  of  the  protests 
of  his  friend,  who,  Cesare  noticed, 
never  once  looked  at  Margherita' s 
back,  but  with  open  admiration  at 
her  face. 

The  illumination  was  getting  itself  in 
36 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

train.  Streets  and  palaces  blossomed 
as  they  rode  through  with  clusters  of 
colored  globes — the  red,  white,  and 
green  of  Italy.  They  halted  in  the 
dark  space  of  the  Piazza  Signoria,  and 
waited  for  the  tower  of  the  Old  Palace 
to  blossom  also.  Suddenly  the  mighty 
mass  began  to  glow  all  over,  as  if  the 
light  came  from  within  the  stone  itself, 
and  there  it  stood,  a  gigantic,  lumi 
nous  fire-palace  against  the  stars,  and 
from  its  top  the  tri-colour  floated.  A 
murmur  of  rapture  rose  from  thou 
sands.  Margherita  touched  Beppe's 
arm. 

"Why  do  they  light  it?  Is  it  for 
some  saint?" 

Beppe  had  taken  off  his  hat.  "No, 
child;  it  is  too  long  to  tell  you"  (the 
fact  was  he  did  not  know  very  well 
himself),  "but  it  is  for  our  Italy — be 
cause  she  was  made  ours  again.  I  was 
a  lad  then,  like  Cesare,  but  I  remem- 
37 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

her.  It  was  to  drive  out  the  Austrians 
and  the  grand  dukes,  and  get  our  own 
again.  Every  time  you  see  that  you 
ought  to  thank  God  for  our  Italy." 

"It  is  so  very  good  to  be  Italian 
then?"  asked  Margherita,  timidly. 

"The  best  thing  in  all  the  world," 
answered  Beppe,  bluntly. 

' '  That  I  know, ' '  said  Cesare.  ' '  There 
is  nothing  like  our  Italy;  even  the 
foreigners  think  so,  or  why  do  they  all 
come  here?  I,  too,  shall  fight  for  her 
some  day,  perhaps." 

"H — m — m,"  commented  Beppe. 
"As  for  fighting,  that  is  an  ugly  thing; 
and  now  that  we  have  our  Italy  I  have 
no  great  furia  to  fight  any  more  my 
self." 

The  great  stone  building  continued 
to  glow,  and  all  the  clocks  in  the  city 
struck  out  together. 

"Nine  o'clock— and  all  that  hill  to 
climb !  It  will  be  ten  before  we  are  half- 
38 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

way  home,  and  we  shall  have  all  the 
folk  out  with  torches  looking  for  us." 

A  sudden  darkness  and  chill  fell 
upon  Margherita. 

"And  you,  Cesare?"  inquired 
Beppe,  taking  up  the  reins.  "Do  we 
say  'Felice  notte'  here,  or  will  you 
come  with  us?  My  Rosellina  will  carry 
you  like  a  feather" — which  was  a  fine 
stroke  of  imagination  on  Beppe's  part. 

"I  come,  too,"  replied  Cesare, 
quickly,  "unless  it  displeases  Mar 
gherita?" 

She  gave  him  one  fleeting  glance, 
and  Cesare  stepped  in  quickly. 

"It  is  stupid  down  here,"  he  ex 
plained,  w*ith  affected  carelessness, 
"and  mia  madre  frets  if  I  am  too  long 
away." 

"One  should  know  when  one  has 
eaten  enough,"  was  Beppe's  dry  com 
ment. 

Margherita  said  nothing  at  all.  She 
39 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

leaned  back  against  the  shabby  cush 
ions,  and  Florence  and  the  world  floated 
away  from  her. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  before  the 
lights  of  the  barrier  faded,  the  dusk 
fell  about  them  like  a  curtain,  and  they 
were  out  on  the  wide  sweet  hillside 
under  the  stars.  Rosellina  climbed 
slowly ;  she  had  kept  so  many  holidays. 
Beppe  turned  to  look  at  the  small  face 
so  white  against  the  sky. 

"Well,  little  one,"  he  said,  with  an 
odd  tremble  in  his  voice,  "you  can  say 
that  you  have  seen  the  world." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  after  a 
second  glance  Beppe  turned  abruptly 
round  upon  his  seat,  and  keeping  his 
face  straight  ahead  began  to  whistle 
industriously,  though  softly. 

The  fireflies  twinkled  all  about  them, 
and  the  perfume  of  roses  swept  down 
against  their  faces  from  the  villa  gar 
dens,  under  whose  walls  they  passed. 
4o 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

Far  up  a  nightingale  began  its  throb 
bing  song.  Cesare  moved  a  little 
nearer. 

"You  must  be  tired,  carina,"  he 
said,  gently.  "See,  rest  here." 

With  that  new  awkwardness  he  put 
out  an  arm  and  drew  her  nearer.  She 
did  not  resist,  and  her  head  fell  softly 
on  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes  burned 
brighter  than  the  fireflies  in  the  dark. 
A  great  tremor  seized  and  held  them 
both  mute,  constrained,  breathless. 
In  the  ilexes  the  nightingale  sang  on — 
of  love,  of  summer,  of  Italy ;  and  sud 
denly  Margherita  felt  upon  her  own 
the  burning  yet  gentle  lips  of  her 
lover. 

Beppe  never  once  turned  his  head. 
"Felice  notte,  Beppe,"  came  softly  to 
him,  as  Cesare  slipped  from  the  car 
nage  into  the  shadows  at  the  border  of 
the  village,  and  he  gave  back  the  words 
as  softly.  But  he  did  not  turn  his 
41 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

head.  How  many  summers  the  fire 
flies  had  twinkled  and  the  nightingale 
been  singing  then  as  now ! 

As  they  drove  into  the  Piazza  a 
clamour  of  voices,  waving  arms,  and 
gesticulating  heads  broke  like  a  wave 
and  surrounded  them.  The  past,  with 
all  its  fireflies  and  nightingales,  van 
ished  abruptly. 

"San  Giuseppe,  Beppe!"  exclaimed 
the  shrill  tones  of  Emilia.  "What 
have  you  been  doing  with  the  child? — 
and  we  giving  her  up  for  murdered  for 
the  money!" 

"Where  has  she  been?"  shrieked 
Fiametta. 

"And  what  has  she  done  with  the 
money — that's  what  I  say,"  inter 
rupted  Carlotta. 

"Now,  now,  good  people,  neighbors, 
amid, ' '  said  Beppe,  deprecatingly,  but 
with    a    twinkle,     "I    have    but    one- 
tongue;  and   what   is  it  to  you  what 
42 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

the  little  one  has  done  with  her  own? 
The  signora  gave  it  to  none  of  you." 

"What  is  it  to  us?"  screamed  half  a 
dozen.  "And  the  whole  place  out  of 
bed  with  anxiety!  A  lone  child  like 
that,  and  all  those  francs!" 

Margherita  slipped  softly  down  and 
into  the  house,  as  one  escapes  a  buzz 
ing  swarm.  Perceiving  that  she  was 
safe,  Beppe  answered  (for  he  could  not 
refuse  himself  the  satisfaction): 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,  we  have 
been  seeing  the  world  a  little  down 
there." 

Rosellina  stood  fast,  and  so  did  her 
master. 

"Seeing  the  world!"  shrieked 
Fiametta;  "then  I  warrant  the  child 
has  thrown  away  all  that  money!" 

"Didn't  I  say  the  fortune  had 
crazed  her!"  exclaimed  Carlotta. 
"Santa  Maria!  all  that  thrown  away." 

All  that  thrown  away!  It  produced 
43 


The  Fortune  of  a  Day 

a  silence.  At  length  old  Marianna 
spoke,  bitterly: 

"I  always  said  she  was  half  a  fool, 
but  next  winter,  when  it  freezes,  I  war 
rant  her  folly  won't  warm  nor  feed  her. ' ' 

"And  serves  her  right,"  answered 
Carlotta,  harshly. 

To  these  it  did  seem  hard.  Oil  and 
flannels  and  food  and  fuel  wasted 
while  old  bones  might  toil  and  moil. 

"So  it  looks  to  you,"  said  Beppe; 
and  every  one  turned  with  indignation 
upon  him,  who,  though  he  might  be 
a  party  to  the  crime  (it  was  worth 
money  to  him),  could  scarcely  have 
the  face  to  extenuate  it.  But  Beppe's 
countenance  wore  a  look  of  calm  con 
viction. 

"So  it  looks  to  you,"  he  repeated, 
"and  I  don't  say  you  are  not  right; 
but  this  I  tell  you,  the  Margherita  will 
never  regret  those  francs,  not  if  she 
lives  to  be  as  old  as  Mariuccia  here." 
44 


His  words,  in  spite  of  the  popular 
indignation,  carried  weight.  In  every 
one's  mind  there  was  already  a  reluc 
tant  perception  that  the  Margherita 
would  henceforth  be  a  more  important 
person,  as  one  who  had  seen  the  world. 
Only  old  Marianna  shook  her  obstinate 
head. 

"I  thank  the  saints  I  am  no  such 
fool  nor  have  any  such  pazza  for  my 
daughter." 

And  the  others  agreed  with  her 
loudly,  with  some  mental  reservations; 
for,  after  all,  to  have  seen  the  world  is 
a  great  thing. 

There  is,  however,  a  greater.  Cesare, 
dreaming  on  his  narrow  bed,  Marghe 
rita  dreaming  wide  awake  on  hers,  with 
Cesare's  beads  clasped  to  her  heart, 
and  Beppe  grimly  counting  out  a  roll 
of  twenty  francs  before  he  added  it  to 
his  stocking's  hoard,  in  their  varying 
degrees  had  consciousness  of  this. 
45 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 


He  was  a  priest  of  God.  Though 
still  young,  he  had  been  a  priest  of 
God  so  long  that  no  one,  least  of  all 
Father  Anselmo  himself,  could  remem 
ber  when  he  had  been  anything  else. 

He  had  not,  however,  been  born  a 
priest  of  God,  but  a  merry  brown-eyed 
baby,  differing  in  no  wise  from  all  the 
other  babies  about  him,  who  were 
destined  for  the  world  and  the  life  of 
the  world — that  world  and  life  of  which 
Anselmo  knew  and  desired  to  know  so 
little.  They  had  become  soldiers, 
men  of  business,  politicians,  house 
holders,  heads  of  families  —  these 
others.  Father  Anselmo  met  them 
49 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

often,  hurrying  hither  and  thither  with 
cares  and  anxieties  of  many  kinds  writ 
ten  on  their  foreheads.  He  looked  at 
them  pityingly — immortal  souls  uncon 
scious  of  their  destiny!  They,  in 
turn,  were  wont  to  cast  upon  him  one 
of  those  singular  glances,  compounded 
of  reverence  and  contempt,  with  which 
the  layman  habitually  regards  the 
priest. 

Many  causes  had  combined  to  lead 
Father  Anselmo  in  his  youth  to  choose 
the  better  part.  He  came  of  a  family 
whose  distinction  was  more  than 
equalled  by  the  smallness  of  its 
revenues;  the  Church  offered  a  refuge 
alike  splendid  and  honorable  to  the 
younger  son.  These  were  reasons 
which  influenced  his  family;  there 
were  others  far  more  potent  with  the 
boy  himself.  His  temperament  led 
him  to  all  ardent  aspirations  and  mystic 
imaginings,  and  he  was  in  Rome  — not 
BO 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

the  Rome  of  the  Caesars,  but  the 
Rome  of  St.  Peter's,  Christian  Rome. 

Thirsting  for  all  things  high  and 
noble,  his  heart  filled  with  vague  en 
thusiasms  for  he  knew  not  what,  he 
was  thrown  into  the  arms  of  the 
Church,  who  gave  him  all  he  craved, 
and  lifted  him  like  a  child  to  her 
bosom.  The  needs  and  longings  he 
himself  could  not  have  uttered,  her 
music  put  into  words  for  him.  He 
had  lost  his  own  mother  early;  the 
Mother  of  God  herself,  tenfold  wor 
shipful,  pure  of  all  taint  of  earth, 
offered  herself  to  his  adoration. 

So  he  became  a  priest,  and  proved 
to  have  a  sublime  "vocation."  In  the 
Church  he  had  been  reared ;  in  the 
Church  he  had  lived  his  life;  in 
the  Church  he  would  one  day  die  to 
the  life  of  the  body  as  he  had  already 
died  to  the  life  of  the  world,  and 
ascend  from  the  Church  militant  to  the 
51 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Church  triumphant.  Ave  and  pater 
noster  came  as  naturally  to  his  lips  as 
laughter  and  light  speech  to  the  lips  of 
others. 

"He  will  die  in  the  odor  of  sanc 
tity,"  murmured  his  brother  priests. 
"He  is  half  a  saint  already." 

"Never  yet,"  says  a  Kempis,  "was 
saint  but  was  sorely  tempted." 
Father  Anselmo  had  been  sorely 
tempted  once. 

It  was  long  ago,  but  he  remembered 
always.  He  remembered  the  first 
morning  she  came  to  the  confessional, 
and  laid  open  to  his  priest's  gaze  every 
secret  fold  of  her  young  heart.  He 
was  accustomed  to  searching  hearts — 
those  of  innocent  children  and  sin-har 
dened  and  age-withered  men  and 
women ;  but  that  morning,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  priesthood,  he  experienced 
a  kind  of  embarrassment,  as  if  he  had 
no  right  to  this  unveiled  confidence, 
52 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

pure  as  it  was — perhaps  because  it  was 
so  pure. 

Later,  it  is  true,  he  grew  accustomed 
to  see  her  kneeling  there,  and  that 
sense  of  embarrassment,  which  cer 
tainly  had  no  place  in  a  priest  of  God, 
was  lost  in  other  feelings. 

One  of  the  most  precious  duties  of 
the  priest  is  the  care  of  the  sick,  and 
Anselmo  was  blessed  for  his  tireless 
benefactions  to  all  his  infirm  and 
afflicted.  So  surely  as  the  cholera 
or  typhus  came,  he  came  also,  and 
over  every  bed  disputed  a  soul  with 
Death. 

It  was  this  peculiar  tenderness  of 
spirit  which  led  him  first  to  the  house 
of  the  slowly  dying  scholar  and 
stranger,  in  whom  he  found  a  soul 
kindred  to  his  own,  which  endeared  his 
ministrations.  To  do  him  simple  jus 
tice,  his  fidelity  would  have  been  the 
same  had  she  not  been  there,  minis- 
53 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

taring  with  a  girl's  grace  and  a 
woman's  insight  to  them  both — con 
sciously  to  the  one,  unconsciously  to 
the  other. 

Father  Anselmo  was  young,  and  a 
beautiful  face  is  twice  beautiful  above 
a  priestly  robe.  Heaven  in  endowing 
him  with  the  attributes  of  a  man  of 
God  had  not  deprived  him  of  the  attri 
butes  of  the  man  human;  in  giving 
him  his  divine  vocation  had  not  taken 
from  him  the  fire  of  his  expressive 
eyes,  the  strong,  slender  hands,  the 
magnetic  manner,  the  smile  like  sun 
shine,  and  rich  caressing  tones — gra 
cious  possessions  everywhere  in  all 
professions.  This  was  possibly  a  divine 
oversight. 

Could  he,  the  priest,  absorbed  in 
things  spiritual  or  purest  earthly  offices 
foresee  a  danger?  Still  less  could  she, 
a  girl  just  budding  into  woman,  with 
no  woman  near,  and  with  a  heart  pre- 
54 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

pared  to  venerate  her  spiritual  adviser, 
"half  a  saint  already,  and  a  whole  one 
when  he  dies, ' '  as  they  told  her  every 
where? 

Sitting  by  her  father's  bedside,  if  the 
sound  of  this  saint's  voice  coming 
through  the  open  door  made  her  pulses 
leap,  and  with  his  coming  into  the  room 
something  else,  like  sunshine,  entered 
palpably  to  her  senses,  could  she 
guess  what  it  meant?  When  his 
word  of  greeting  raised  a  soundless 
tumult  in  her  heart,  could  she  guess 
even  then? 

To  strangers  in  a  strange  land,  with 
a  sorrow  brooding  near,  what  infinite 
value  the  one  best  friend  and  comforter 
assumes.  Father  and  daughter,  they 
both  revered  and  clung  to  Anselmo. 

When  the  young  priest  had  bidden 

the  invalid  good  night,  he  would  pause 

for  a  moment  outside  to  speak  a  word 

of  counsel  or  courage  with  the  invalid's 

55 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

daughter.  Sometimes  they  strolled  in 
speaking  to  the  border  of  the  little  gar 
den,  and  the  distance  lengthened  and 
their  steps  lingered  in  the  sweet  dusk 
of  the  ilexes.  They  talked  so  much, 
so  much  in  these  days.  Later,  they 
talked  so  little. 

She  went  often  to  confession. 
Young  and  alone  and  soon  to  be  twice 
lonely,  what  could  be  more  sweet  and 
comforting  than  to  pour  out  the  weak 
ness  and  anxieties  of  her  own  heart 
into  another,  which  God  had  expressly 
appointed  and  filled  with  His  own 
goodness  towards  her,  and  in  the  tones 
of  whose  trembling  voice,  as  he  ab 
solved  and  blessed  her,  she  felt  the 
tenderness  of  God  Himself! 

The  priest  was  very  dear  to  his  peo 
ple  at  this  time.  Something  of  the 
tenderness  one  invoked  brooded  in  his 
manner  to  all ;  some  echo  of  it  lingered 
in  his  voice.  When,  absolved  and 
56 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

blessed,  the  golden  head  had  flitted 
from  the  gloomy  little  box,  and  in  its 
stead  appeared  at  the  grating  a  gray, 
bent,  or  unkempt  dark  one,  patiently 
the  young  priest  inclined  his  ear  to  the 
tale  of  sorrow,  sin,  discontent,  or  suf 
fering,  and  from  a  heart  overflowing 
with  human  gentleness  came  wisdom 
and  inspiration. 

' '  He  is  a  saint,  our  Padre  Anselmo ! ' ' 
said  his  people.  "And  so  wise! 
Maraviglioso! ' ' 

"Madonna  bless  him!"  old  Lisa 
would  say — old  Lisa,  whose  daughter 
had  brought  shame  home  to  her  honest 
old  parents.  "He  says  the  Madonna 
will  ask  her  Son  to  overlook  my 
Adele's  fault  because  she  loved  that 
scamp  so  much." 

"Yes,  and  he  says,"  added  another, 

piously    crossing    himself,     "that    we 

must  all  ask  Madonna  to  intercede  for 

us,  so  we  shall  be  saved,  for  that  the 

57 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

blessed  Gesu  can  refuse  His  mother 
nothing  when  she  asks  Him;  He  loves 
her  so  well!" 

By  this  it  will  be  seen  that  a  gospel 
of  tenderness  was  preaching  itself  in 
the  priest's  soul.  Never,  indeed,  had 
he  felt  so  sublime  a  consciousness  of  his 
vocation ;  never  so  conscious  of  power 
over  the  souls  of  others.  A  zeal  that 
amounted  to  passion  possessed  him. 
"Early  and  late  will  I  praise  Thee,  O 
God!"  was  his  cry.  In  these  days  his 
face  wore  a  look  of  singular  sweet 
ness.  "There  walks  a  saint!"  people 
said,  turning  in  the  street  to  gaze 
again  at  that  removed,  angelic  coun 
tenance. 

It  is  a  very  old  story. 

The  days  lengthened.  What  had 
been  May  ripened  into  June;  June  slid 
subtly  into  July ;  the  ilexes  grew  dusty ; 
the  sun  beat  down  and  withered  the 
Campagna  like  a  crumpled  leaf,  and  in 
58 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Rome  itself  the  heat  was  great,  and 
strangers  fled  from  the  city. 

July  deepened  into  August.  The 
dying  scholar  in  the  villa  grew  feebler 
with  each  passing  day.  The  priest 
visited  him  unceasingly.  There  came 
an  August  twilight,  when  a  thousand 
perfumes  diffused  themselves  subtly  on 
the  moist,  warm  air;  (Who  has  calcu 
lated  how  many  lives  the  rose  alone  has 
betrayed?)  when  a  low  star  stood  over 
the  hills,  and  the  nightingale  sang  in 
the  shadow.  The  two  stood,  as  they 
had  stood  a  hundred  times  before,  in 
the  secluded  garden.  In  her  face,  a 
little  worn  by  watching,  and  shadowed 
by  approaching  loss,  still  life  was  more 
eloquent  than  death ;  and  her  eyes  as 
she  raised  them  shyly  to  the  tall  young 
priest  were  filled  with  charming, 
changeful  things;  the  very  curves  of 
her  lips  spoke  of  an  unknown  joy. 

Anselmo  heard  the  nightingale  and 
59 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

breathed  the  rose,  and  his  dark  eyes 
glanced  and  rested  on  his  companion. 
Tall  and  stalwart,  he  walked  silently  at 
her  side,  more  like  a  young  soldier  of 
the  cross  than  a  chastened  monk,  and 
more  like  a  lover  than  either. 

The  girl  noted  without  noting  the 
strong  curves  of  his  lips,  the  resolute 
chin,  the  clear  look  straight  from  under 
the  straight  brows.  Did  it  need  all 
that  to  make  a  priest  ?  They  were  very 
used  to  long  silences — those  silences 
which  speak  deeper  than  words,  deeper 
than  anything  save  perhaps  lips  on  lips 
in  a  sweeter  silence. 

Quite  unconsciously  to  herself  there 
had  grown  up  in  the  young  girl's  man 
ner  a  perfectly  innocent  coquetry  to 
wards  the  man  in  the  priest — a  pure 
coquetry  which  is  born  with  love  in 
the  heart  of  every  happy  woman  who 
feels  herself  loved,  whether  she  knows 
it  or  not.  Nothing  is  more  winning 
60 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

than  such  sweet  coquetry,  and  no 
woman  less  a  coquette  than  she  who 
possesses  it. 

Something  of  this  mingled  even  in 
the  gesture  with  which  she  said,  raising 
her  eyes  to  the  priest  and  motioning 
towards  the  open  windows  of  the  villa, 
"He  is  much  weaker  to-day,  is  he 
not?"  Tears  trembled  in  her  eyes  and 
voice. 

The  priest  bent  his  head  silently  in 
response. 

The  tears  brimmed  over;  two  large 
ones  fell  into  the  rose  on  her  bosom, 
and  she  tried  visibly  to  repress  the 
quivering  of  her  lips;  but  she  did  not 
turn  away. 

Father  Anselmo's  heart  beat  pain 
fully.  "It  is  the  will  of  God,"  he  said. 
"Submit  yourself  to  it,  and  trust  in 
Him." 

The  golden  head  drooped  silently, 
and  the  priest's  heart  yearned  over  it. 
61 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"Remember,"  he  went  on,  gently, 
"that  your  loss  is  his  gain.  Think  of 
all  his  sufferings,  and  rejoice  that  their 
end  is  near." 

The  words  were  the  priest's  words, 
but  the  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  friend, 
and  the  hand  which  touched  hers  was 
the  hand  of  a  living  soul.  Its  warm 
pulses  sent  currents  of  comfort  and 
strength  through  her  tired  heart.  The 
priest,  too,  felt  a  quickening  thrill  at 
that  contact,  and  hastily  withdrew 
from  it.  He  bent  above  a  rose  on 
the  bush  to  conceal  his  trouble,  and 
they  both  were  again  silent  in  the 
dusk,  a  silence  more  dangerous  than 
the  last. 

The  sum  of  that  moment's  rapid 
thought  revealed  itself  in  the  word 
which  broke  at  last  from  Father  An- 
selmo's  lips: 

"And  you?"  he  said;  "what  will 
become  of  you?" 

62 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Her  eyes  came  back  to  him  from 
some  infinite  distance. 

"I  will  be  a  nun,"  she  replied, 
simply. 

"A  nun!"  Anselmo  started  vio 
lently.  He  felt  a  shock,  a  recoil,  an 
electric  thrill  of  horror  and  dismay. 
He  stared  horrified  at  the  calm,  blue- 
eyed  countenance,  as  if  those  rosy  lips 
had  just  uttered  impious  blasphemies. 

"A  nun!  —  you!"  he  repeated. 
"Impossible!" 

She  looked  at  him  amazed,  stupefied. 

"Impossible!"  repeated  the  priest, 
"impossible!" 

Like  a  flash  the  future  comprehended 
in  her  words  unrolled  itself  before  him. 
He  saw  the  vows  pronounced,  the 
solemn  vocation  entered  upon,  the 
golden  hair  shorn,  the  head  forever 
hidden  behind  the  iron  grating,  the  seal 
set  forever  on  that  young  life,  that  life 
immured  where  his  eyes  should  see  no 
63 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

more,  his  ears  hear  no  more,  his  heart 
no  more  have  cognizance  of  hers.  It 
came  home  to  him  in  one  moment  of 
anguished  horror,  and  everything  that 
had  slumbered  within  him  through  his 
youth  and  manhood  awoke  with  a 
bound. 

"Impossible!"  he  repeated,  vio 
lently;  "impossible!" 

He  seized  her  arm ;  he  almost  shook 
her  in  his  anger,  and  with  his  burning 
eyes  gazed  into  hers.  And  then  he  fell 
back,  speechless,  before  the  look  which 
beamed  upon  him. 

"Why  not?  you  are  a  priest." 

Why  not?  The  priest  looked  help 
lessly  to  earth  and  heaven  for  an  an 
swer,  and  earth  and  heaven  offered 
none ;  instead  his  desperate  glance  en 
countered  two  heavenly  eyes.  There 
was  an  involuntary  movement  —  the 
impulse  of  two  natures  which  nothing 
on  earth  at  that  moment  could  have 
64 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

kept  apart — the  next  she  was  lying  in 
his  arms.  The  question  was  answered. 

Twenty  years  of  repression,  of  heart- 
hunger,  avenged  themselves  in  one 
instant.  The  defrauded  kisses  of  all 
his  youth  were  blent  in  the  long  one 
he  laid  upon  her  lips.  Heaven  and 
earth  had  quietly  withdrawn.  He  was 
no  longer  a  priest,  he  had  never  been 
a  priest ;  accidents  of  life  and  training 
fell  away,  and  only  the  primal  pair,  the 
Man  and  the  Woman,  remained. 

His  hand,  seeking  for  hers,  caught 
in  the  rosary  at  his  side;  impatiently 
he  tore  it  from  him,  and  it  fell  upon 
the  grass  unheeded.  In  that  moment 
he  was  not  busy  with  rosaries. 

She  made  no  effort,  but  rested  in  his 
arms  unresisting,  undesiring.  He  was 
her  only  will,  and  the  lover  knew  it. 

What  power,  then,  of  memory,  of 
conscience,  of  honour,  of  duty,  habit, 
tradition,  could  reach  him  at  that 
65 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

height  and  draw  him  back?  What 
strength  exceeding  the  strength  of 
nature — what  second  nature,  stunned 
for  an  instant  by  the  passionate  on 
slaught,  cried  out  the  next  more  loudly 
than  nature's  self? 

Such  power  there  was.  It  tore  his 
lips  from  hers,  wrenched  his  arms  away, 
hurled  her  back  upon  the  rose-bushes, 
and  sent  him  rushing  through  the 
darkness  like  the  madman  he  was. 


66 


II 

Through  hours  of  anguish  he  grov 
elled  on  the  floor  of  his  room;  what 
tortures  the  soul  wrought  on  the  body 
and  body  requited  to  the  soul,  mat 
ters  not.  Bitterer  still  were  the  hours 
he  passed  with  his  spiritual  superior. 
After  a  lifetime  of  listening  to  such 
confessions,  the  good  Father  had 
grown  adept  in  dealing  with  his  peni 
tents.  Other  priests  before  now  had 
come  on  their  knees  with  tales  like 
this.  Other  voices  before  this  had 
accused  themselves  of  every  vileness 
in  his  sight  and  God's.  He  was 
acute  in  divining  the  souls  of  men 
under  the  priest's  frock,  and  he  showed 
this  acuteness  now  by  abstaining  from 
any  offer  of  solace  to  Father  Anselmo. 
67 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

He  did  not  tell  him  such  a  sin  was, 
after  all — not  a  venial  sin,  of  course, 
nor  lightly  to  be  overlooked — but  still 
comprehensible  and  pardonable  to  the 
youthful  blood  of  a  faithful  servant  of 
the  Church.  But  he  reminded  him 
that  the  flesh  is  a  grievous  trial,  that 
there  is  joy  in  heaven  over  a  repentant 
sinner,  and  that,  moreover,  this  had 
been  rather  a  temptation  to  sin  than  a 
sin  proper,  seeing  that  his  guardian 
angel  had  saved  him  from  the  total 
fall. 

"The  Blessed  Virgin  and  all  the 
saints  be  praised,  my  son,  that  you  did 
not  wrong  the  maiden!"  he  said. 
"Sin  and  indiscretion  of  a  surety  you 
have  committed,  but  these  may  be 
atoned." 

Much  more  serious  did  the  good 
Father  become  when  he  learned  the 
second  clause  of  the  penitent's  offence. 

"Far  graver  is  this  offence,  which 

68 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

you  make  but  light  of — the  interposing 
to  deter  a  soul  from  its  religious  voca 
tion.  It  is  a  deadly  sin,  my  son. 
You  say  her  father  has  worldly  for 
tune?" 

"Somewhat,  I  believe  —  I  know 
not,"  came  from  the  pallid  lips  of  the 
suffering  priest. 

The  superior  cast  a  glance  of  some 
anger  at  the  kneeling  penitent. 
"Collect  yourself,  my  son,"  said  he, 
with  asperity,  "and  endeavour  to  con 
sider  what  atonement  is  in  your  power 
to  make,  for  grievous  has  been  your 
sin." 

"Alas!  I  know  it — miserable  that  I 
am!"  moaned  Anselmo.  "I  am  the 
lowest,  the  vilest ;  she  was  in  my  care ! ' ' 

"Think  less  of  her  and  more  of  the 
Church,  my  son!"  interrupted  the 
Father,  severely. 

Anselmo  was  silent  a  long  moment. 
Then  he  lifted  his  white  face.  "It  is 
69 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

useless,  Father;  I  try,  but  I  cannot.  I 
think  of  her  only!" 

The  Father  looked  at  him  with  min 
gled  pity  and  contempt. 

"Well,  well,  my  son,"  he  said, 
soothingly.  "Patience!  Satan  will 
not  be  cast  out  at  once,  but  prayer, 
and  still  more,  atonement,  will  prevail. 
Do  the  thing  which  lies  in  your  power; 
it  will  bring  peace  to  your  soul." 

"I  will  do  anything,  Father,"  mur 
mured  Anselmo,  "except  forget  her." 

"Holy  Church  is  reasonable,  my 
son,  and  lenient.  She  does  not  ask 
impossibilities,  nor  even  great  efforts, 
though  she  can  command  all.  Small 
offerings  please  her  best.  You  will 
write  to  the  maiden — " 

"Father!" 

There  was  a  slight  compression  of 
the  lines  about  the  elder  priest's 
mouth. 

"I  say,  my  son,  you  will  write  to 
70 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

her  asking  pardon  for  your  grievous 
sin." 

"Ah!" 

"And  for  your  still  more  grievous 
sin  in  seeking  to  turn  her  from  her 
vocation ;  for  whereas  the  other  was 
but  a  sin  against  a  sinful  human  being, 
this  is  a  sin  against  God  and  His  Holy 
Church.  You  will  do  penance  by 
using  your  influence — if  she  be  like 
other  women,  you  will  have  much — to 
justify  her  choice.  Do  this  at  once. 
I  myself  will  be  the  bearer  of  your 
letter." 

"Father!" 

"My  son!"  frigidly. 

Anselmo  was  silent  with  a  tumult  of 
passions  warring  within.  Suddenly  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  It  was 
the  moment  for  which  the  astute  elder 
man  had  been  waiting.  He  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  bowed  shoulders. 

"Courage,  my  son!"  said  he,  ten- 
7' 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

derly.  ' '  The  trial  is  bitter,  but  it  will 
not  last  forever.  Though  He  suffers 
His  saints  to  be  afflicted,  they  shall 
not  be  utterly  cast  down.  The 
mercy  of  God  is  boundless.  Do  your 
duty,  and  you  shall  not  only  win 
peace  yourself,  but  bring  her  to  peace 
also. ' ' 

There  was  a  movement  of  the  bent 
head. 

"If  you  have  sown  the  seed  of  sin 
ful  hope  and  passion  in  this  woman's 
heart,  lead  her  now  in  the  way  of 
light.  Where  but  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Church  will  her  bruised  spirit  find  balm 
and  consolation.  Will  you  leave  her 
alone,  the  prey  of  unscrupulous  men 
in  the  world?  You  have  taken  from 
her  the  peace  of  earth" — Anselmo 
shuddered — "give  her  the  peace  of 
heaven !  And  your  gift  will  be  greater 
than  that  you  have  taken  from  her.  In 
the  world  she  can  only  live  to  despise 
72 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

and  curse  you,  but  once  safe,  through 
your  influence,  in  the  peace  of  the 
Church,  she  will  remember  you  with 
gratitude  and  thankfulness.  Nay, 
more,"  went  on  the  wise  Father,  "it  is 
not  only  allowed,  but  enjoined  the 
children  of  the  Church  to  love  each 
other  in  Christian  tenderness.  Though 
parted  in  the  flesh,  she  will  be  per 
mitted  to  love  you  in  this  wise,  and 
after  death  who  knows  if  you  will  not 
dwell  in  spiritual  nearness.  Who 
knows  but  it  may  be  yours  to  place  the 
saint's  crown  upon  her  head.  Ah,  my 
son!"  exclaimed  the  good  priest,  in 
accents  of  moving  tenderness,  "what 
joy  on  earth  comparable  to  that! 
What  are  the  sorrows  of  the  flesh  to 
the  eternal  felicity  of  the  spirit !  What 
the  sacrifice  of  an  hour  to  the  bene 
diction  everlasting!  If  you  love  her 
indeed,  lift  up  your  love,  make  it  a 
love  for  which  you  will  not  blush  in 
73 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

heaven.  Devote  yourself,  your  own 
salvation,  to  the  salvation  of  this  wom 
an's  soul.  That  will  be  a  task  worthy 
of  supreme  love  itself." 

Anselmo  dropped  his  hands  from  his 
face.  "Father,  I  am  ready." 

' '  Rise,  rise,  my  son, ' '  cried  the  elder, 
enthusiastically.  "Begin  the  blessed 
work  this  moment.  Here  are  pen  and 
paper ;  may  heaven  inspire  your  words ! ' ' 

Obeying  the  outstretched  hand  and 
commanding  accents,  Anselmo  moved 
to  the  table  and  took  up  the  pen.  He 
dipped  it  in  the  ink  mechanically,  and 
paused.  What  was  he  to  say?  With 
out  stopping  to  breathe,  he  dashed 
some  impassioned  words  of  prayer,  of 
penitence,  of  remorse,  on  the  paper — 
some  incoherent  message;  and  then  a 
violent  revulsion  came.  Her  face  rose 
between  the  paper  and  him,  and  he 
snatched  the  letter  and  tore  it  into 
fifty  fragments. 

74 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

A  fresh  sheet  was  instantly  laid  be 
fore  him. 

"Courage,  my  son;  try  again,"  said 
the  priest's  voice,  imperturbably. 

Again  and  again  Anselmo  repeated 
the  miserable  attempt  and  the  igno 
minious  failure,  until  the  Father  him 
self  lost  patience. 

"Is  this  your  love — I  say  not  of 
God,  but  of  her,  my  son?"  he  de 
manded,  sternly.  "You  are  adding  to 
your  sin  with  every  moment." 

He  laid  one  more  sheet  of  paper 
before  Anselmo.  "Here,"  he  said, 
authoritatively;  "it  is  the  warrant  of 
her  soul's  salvation  which  lies  before 
you.  Do  you  refuse  to  sign  it?" 

The  wretched  priest  bowed  his  head 
in  silence,  and  with  white  lips  he  wrote 
a  few  shaking  lines,  signed  it  passion 
ately,  and  started  up  from  his  chair. 

"I  can  do  no  more,  Father;  it  must 
answer."  He  turned  away  exhausted. 
75 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

The  elder  man  cast  his  eye  over  the 
paper.  "I  am  the  vilest  of  sinners," 
it  ran,  "but  I  will  pray  for  you  without 
ceasing.  Be  a  nun,  since  it  is  the  will 
of  God,  and  pardon  and  pray  for  the 
wretched  Anselmo.  Pardon !  pardon ! ' ' 
was  dashed  below. 

The  Father  was  far  from  being  satis 
fied  with  this  production,  the  fruit  of 
so  many  hours  of  obdurate  wrestling; 
but  he,  as  well  as  his  penitent,  was 
worn  out,  and  he  wisely  contented 
himself  with  having  carried  his  point 
so  far.  Much  might  be  done,  he  re 
flected,  upon  this  basis,  with  a  rein 
forcement  of  personal  presence.  He 
himself  would  go  to  the  villa,  bear  the 
note,  talk  with  this  erring  daughter  of 
Eve,  and  explain  to  the  dying  father 
that  Anselmo  had  been  summoned 
away  on  an  important  mission.  As 
for  Anselmo,  he  had  looked  his  last  on 
the  dangerous  ground  of  the  villa. 
76 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

This  dictum  the  young  priest  ac 
cepted  without  a  murmur.  The  dying 
man's  hours  would  be  lonelier,  lacking 
his  ministrations.  It  was  one  of  the 
wide-spreading  ripples  of  his  sin.  He 
bowed  himself  submissively  to  the  rod. 

A  nominal  penance  was  assigned 
him.  The  elder  priest  had  sense 
enough  to  divine  that  with  a  nature 
like  this  he  should  rather  need  to  tax 
his  skill  to  lighten  the  real  suffering 
than  augment  it ;  the  arbitrary  penance 
served  this  end. 

The  good  Father  was  nearly  as  ex 
hausted  as  Anselmo  when  he  dismissed 
him,  and  as  he  threw  himself  heavily 
into  his  comfortable  chair  he  closed  his 
eyes  with  an  involuntary  thanksgiving 
that  all  the  souls  in  his  care  were  not 
of  the  stuff  that  saints  are  made  of; 
then,  horrified,  he  crossed  himself  in 
pious  haste. 


77 


Ill 

What  did  she  say?  What  would  she 
do?  In  what  manner  did  she  receive 
his  message?  It  was  the  heaviest  part 
of  Anselmo's  penance  that  he  did  not 
know. 

In  the  week  following  his  confession 
a  mission  was  entrusted  to  him  which 
removed  him  from  the  city  for  some 
months.  He  went  as  he  would  have 
gone  into  the  jaws  of  hell  at  a  com 
mand.  He  flung  himself  with  a  fury 
of  zeal  into  the  work,  absorbed  him 
self,  submerged  himself,  would  fain 
have  annihilated  himself  had  it  been 
possible ;  and  succeeded  so  well  in  the 
rather  delicate  matter  confided  to  him 
that  he  came  out  of  it  a  marked  man 
in  the  eyes  of  his  superiors,  and  was 
78 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

greeted  with  many  whispers  of  a  future 
reserved  for  him  on  earth  as  well  as 
after. 

His  task  accomplished,  he  cameback ; 
and  people  marvelled;  —  the  young 
priest  would  never  be  called  young 
again.  He  had  aged  by  years;  his 
cheeks  were  thinner,  his  temples  more 
defined,  his  eyes  deeper  set,  and  new 
lines  had  developed  about  them  and 
his  mouth.  He  had  gone  away  an 
ardent,  eager,  impulsive  man ;  he  came 
home  silent  and  self-withdrawn — priest 
to  the  last  fibre  of  his  being.  He  had 
fought  out  his  battle,  and  there  was 
conquest  written  in  every  worn  line. 

She  came  no  longer  to  the  confes 
sional. 

Once  only,  returning  from  a  visit  to 
a  sick  parishioner,  Anselmo's  path  led 
him  by  the  villa.  The  windows  were 
shut,  cobwebs  hung  over  the  panes,  a 
dreary  air  of  neglect  proclaimed  aban- 
79 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

donment.  There  lay  the  garden  de 
serted,  and  long  sprays  of  the  rose 
bush  trailed  across  the  path.  The 
priest  bent  his  broad  hat  closer  above 
his  eyes  and  hastened  his  steps. 

Then  began  for  Father  Anselmo  that 
life  which  is  still  remembered,  which 
has  acquired  almost  a  legendary  flavor 
in  Rome.  While  he  still  walked  in  the 
flesh  among  them,  he  became  a  priest 
apart,  a  name  distinct  from  other 
priests.  Ceaseless  were  his  services  to 
God  and  man ;  not  one  duty  however 
terrible,  not  one  task  however  loath 
some,  from  which  he  swerved  or 
shrank.  He  led  a  consecrated  life,  in 
the  strictest  sense.  The  hours  of  the 
day  were  as  the  beads  of  a  rosary  of 
good  deeds.  He  was  known  as  a  saint, 
revered  as  a  saint,  adored  as  a  saint, 
and  feared  as  no  saint  should  be.  For 
with  a  perfect  abnegation  of  self  and 
devotion  to  the  souls  about  him,  he 
80 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

combined  an  austere  indifference  to 
their  bodies.  So  that  a  soul  was  saved, 
the  body  might  perish  by  the  process 
of  salvation.  He  could  indeed  nurse 
the  sick  with  the  tenderness  of  a 
woman ;  the  infirm  and  suffering  knew 
him  for  a  saviour;  to  the  murderer,  the 
thief,  the  soul  so  steeped  in  guilt  that 
it  had  become  one  huge  Guilt,  he  could 
say,  with  the  voice  which  rang  convic 
tion  as  a  bell  rings  music,  "Though 
your  sins  be  as  scarlet,  they  shall  be 
whiter  than  snow!" 

But  for  the  simple  human  weaknesses 
of  the  heart,  its  passionate  longings, 
its  misguided  desires,  its  outcrying 
needs,  its  perpetual  struggles  and  fre 
quent  falls — for  these  the  pitying  angel 
became  the  severe  judge. 

It  is  a  strange  thing,  but  true:  by 

suffering  and  sin  the  soul  often  allies 

itself  to  all  souls,  while  by  suffering 

and  conquest  it  too  often  allies  itself 

81 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

to  nothing  but  the  Lucifer  angel  of 
pride  and  bitter  hardness.  We  have 
held  our  hands  in  the  fire  without 
shrinking;  shall  these  murmur?  The 
eye  that  offended,  we  have  plucked 
out;  shall  these  do  less? 

So  it  was  with  Anselmo ;  and  having 
this  unsparing  judgment  for  the  weak 
nesses  of  the  human  heart,  for  its 
pleasures  he  had  little  sympathy. 
Sacrifices  to  the  flesh,  indulgences  of 
the  body,  he  looked  but  coldly  on. 
Therefore  the  young,  the  gay,  happy 
lovers,  the  newly  married,  and  those 
whose  hearts  were  hungry  or  outworn 
with  the  fitful  desires  of  youth,  held 
aloof  from  him.  He  might  be  a  great 
saint,  but  Madonna  and  the  pictured 
saints  were  nearer  than  he. 

He  might  have  become  an  eminent 

son  of  the  Church,  this  tall  priest  with 

the  worn,  exalted  face  and  eyes  that 

pierced  men's  souls,  but  every  prefer- 

82 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

ment  he  put  from  him.  He  remained 
to  the  last  only  Father  Anselmo ;  if  it 
should  be  "Saint"  some  day,  that  was 
God's  work,  not  man's.  His  exterior 
life  was  such  as  we  have  said ;  of  his 
interior  life  no  one  knew  anything. 
What  fasts  and  vigils  were  his,  what 
prayers,  what  hopes,  whether  there  yet 
remained  a  spark  of  the  early  fire  shut 
in  that  silent  breast,  none  could  say. 
His  life  was  the  life  of  a  devotee;  his 
face  the  face  of  a  monk  of  the  early 
ages. 

A  year  after  he  had  parted  from  her 
he  saw  her  again.  He  went  up  the 
steps  of  a  house  in  the  old  quarter  of 
Rome.  Suddenly  something  drew  his 
gaze  upwards;  he  looked,  and  beheld 
her  standing  at  the  top. 

In  her  black  gown  she  seemed  thin 
ner,  older,  fairer,  and  her  eyes  were 
already  upon  him ;  those  calm  eyes  and 
his  own  deep,  sombre  ones  encountered 
83 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

a  moment  in  silence.  There  are  as 
many  kinds  of  silence  as  of  speech. 

With  an  inscrutable  little  smile  she 
moved  down,  near,  beside  him,  past. 
Anselmo  did  not  turn  his  head  to 
glance  after  her,  but  went  on  up  the 
stairs  into  the  house. 

Then  she  was  not  a  nun. 


84 


IV 

There  was  a  stuffy  smell;  the  hot 
air  coming  from  without  was  scarcely 
more  refreshing  than  the  hot  air  within 
the  room,  and  the  child  on  the  pillow 
moved  restlessly. 

Father  Anselmo  came  forward 
quickly  at  the  sound.  He  looked 
anxiously  at  his  companion,  who,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bed,  stirred  with 
a  large  fan  the  air  about  the  child's 
head. 

"The  heat  grows  insufferable,"  said 
the  priest. 

The  woman  smiled,  a  sweet,  light 
smile,  and  fanned  on  in  silence.  Then, 
laying  the  fan  down,  she  rose  and 
slipped  away  into  the  adjoining  room. 
As  if  accustomed  to  substitute  itself 
85 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

thus,  Anselmo's  hand  took  up  the 
task  of  fanning,  while  a  shadow  of 
thoughtfulness  deepened  on  his  face. 
By  how  many  sick-beds  had  this  lit 
tle  scene  repeated  itself  in  the  years 
past!  As  easily  and  naturally  as  the 
months  of  those  years  had  rolled  into 
each  other,  the  little  chain  of  meetings, 
crossings,  occasions,  opportunities  had 
grown  to  this.  At  first  they  met  fre 
quently,  as  on  that  first  day,  on  inter 
cepting  errands  of  good  will  and  char 
ity.  Then  by  some  sick-bed  they 
found  themselves  side  by  side ;  in  dark 
rooms  where  poverty  cringed  or  shame 
cowered,  they  grew  accustomed  each  to 
encounter  the  other.  Finally,  when 
the  typhus  broke  out  and  raged  through 
the  poorer  quarters,  when  all  who 
could  flee  had  fled,  when  the  heat  and 
fever  alone  divided  possession  of  the 
stricken  city,  when  the  priests,  physi 
cians,  and  nurses  who  stayed  were 
86 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

taxed  to  the  utmost,  and  sinister  black 
processions  were  met  in  the  deserted 
streets  at  all  hours,  carrying  the  dead 
to  hasty  burial — in  that  hour  of  stress 
and  universal  suffering  the  two  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder  against  the  com 
mon  misery. 

Without  a  word  the  long-defended 
barriers  fell  away;  the  two  so  long 
divided  were  drawn  close  in  bonds  of 
common  service.  After  the  very  first 
the  priest  did  not  even  say,  "You 
should  not  be  here;  there  is  danger," 
nor  the  woman,  "Save  yourself  a  lit 
tle,  I  beg  you!"  Each  silently 
accepted  the  other's  right  without 
questioning.  In  all  but  dress  she  was 
a  Sister  of  Mercy ;  even  in  robe  he  was 
a  priest  of  God. 

Now  and  then,  as  he  caught  a  vision 

of  that  face  bent  above  some  sufferer, 

or  found  her  ready  hands  waiting  to 

supplement  his,    a  voiceless   word   of 

87 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

thanksgiving  rose  in  his  heart:  "Mer 
ciful  God,  I  thank  thee  that  I  wronged 
not  this  angel  of  thine!" 

The  child  moved  again,  and  Anselmo 
bent  and  brushed  the  hair  from  the 
warm  forehead.  The  little  invalid 
seized  a  finger  of  that  comforting  hand 
and  clung  to  it. 

"What  is  it,  Luciano?"  asked  the 
Father. 

The  boy  did  not  reply,  but  fixing 
his  smiling  blue  eyes  on  the  priest's 
face,  he  laid  his  cheek  caressingly  on 
the  imprisoned  hand,  and  the  two 
remained  so  silently. 

We  have  said  that  the  young  did 
not  love  Father  Anselmo.  Luciano 
was  the  exception  proving  the  rule. 
Why  he  should  have  been  so  no  one 
knows ;  but  since  the  day  that  Anselmo 
had  taken  him  from  the  arms  of  his 
sick  mother  and  laid  him  in  the  arms 
of  the  young  Sister  of  Mercy,  Luciano 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

had  shared  his  heart  between  them. 
His  mother,  one  of  the  last  victims  of 
the  fever,  lay  in  the  next  room,  slowly 
regaining  her  strength.  Luciano,  too, 
had  been  very  sick  with  a  slow,  obsti 
nate  sickness,  probably  grown  from  the 
same  seeds  of  want  and  hunger. 

Together  his  self-appointed  nurses 
had  cherished  him  back  to  life,  and 
— again  none  knows  why — above  that 
small  bed  a  closer  tie  had  spun  itself 
than  in  all  the  other  ministrations. 
The  child  was  become  inexpressibly 
dear  to  them.  He  was  in  some  sort  a 
child  vouchsafed  to  their  childless 
hearts,  as  if  heaven,  in  recognition  of 
their  filial  obedience,  had  willed  that  a 
child  should  be  given  them  to  love, 
without  the  sin  of  his  creation  being 
laid  to  their  account. 

To  Anselmo,  especially,  this  little 
being  who  did  not  shrink  from  his 
austerity,  but  stretched  arms  and 
89 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

smiled  with  delight  at  his  approach, 
was  as  a  sunbeam  from  God.  The 
nestling  of  that  soft,  curly  head  against 
his  priest's  soutane  awoke  ever  fresh 
accesses  of  tenderness,  and  when  at 
some  new  grace  of  childhood,  some  fan 
tastic  but  charming  caprice,  the  priest's 
eyes  would  turn  to  meet  the  sympa 
thetic,  merry  glance  of  the  Sister,  a 
sweet  content  filled  and  overfilled  his 
being.  Once  he  actually  laughed 
aloud.  He  was  not  himself  conscious 
of  the  strangeness  of  that  resurrection 
laugh;  but  the  Sister  turned  at  the 
sound  with  startled  eyes,  and  turned 
them  away  again  tear-filled.  Father 
Anselmo,  bent  above  Luciano  and 
still  smiling,  saw  nothing. 

The  fever  was  nearly  gone.  It  left 
many  desolate  homes,  many  weak,  pale 
victims,  and  those  who  had  stepped 
between  it  and  its  prey  so  worn  and 
reduced  that  it  might  hope  to  reap  an 
90 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

aftermath  of  martyrs;  but  it  left  some 
hearts  re-created,  some  spirits  cleansed 
as  by  fire,  and,  not  least  of  its  mer 
cies,  it  left  Luciano.  Probably  that 
one  small,  large-eyed  child  of  the  peo 
ple  seemed  a  prey  not  worth  stoop 
ing  for.  It  left  also  his  two  nurses. 
The  Sister's  eyes  had  taken  a  violet 
shadow,  and  her  face  was  like  a  Parian 
vase  to  hold  them;  while  Father 
Anselmo,  with  incessant  watching 
and  nursing  and  his  habitual  neg 
lect  of  his  own  welfare,  was  in  truth  a 
walking  shadow.  He  was  conscious 
at  times  of  a  great  weariness,  but  of 
the  body  only.  His  spirit  waxed 
young  as  the  body  wasted  —  again, 
who  knows  why?  And  on  this  August 
morning,  kneeling  beside  Luciano,  in 
spite  of  his  cramped  limbs  and  a  sleep 
less  night,  he  was  resting  perfectly. 

Presently  the  Sister  came  back  from 
the  inner  room. 

91 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"She  is  sleeping,"  she  said,  in 
reply  to  the  priest's  questioning  glance. 

Anselmo  rose  from  his  knees  and 
laid  down  the  fan. 

"I  will  go  then;  I  have  so  many 
to  visit.  I  will  call  again  before 
night. ' ' 

The  Sister  nodded  assent.  "I  will 
stay,"  she  said. 

Anselmo  passed  his  hand  lightly 
over  the  boy's  curls.  "Good  by, 
Luciano." 

Luciano,  ill-content  at  the  departure 
of  his  bond-slave,  pouted.  The  Sister, 
smiling,  bent  over  him,  coaxing  him 
to  speak. 

How  many  times  had  the  little  scene 
been  enacted  before!  Why,  just  to 
day,  did  it  happen  that  the  muslin 
kerchief  worn  Quaker-wise  about  the 
Sister's  slender  throat  was  loosened  a 
little,  so  that  Luciano's  mischievous 
eyes  should  catch  a  gleam  of  gold  and 
92 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

his  unmannerly  hands  make  a  swift 
grab  at  it. 

The  Sister  made  a  desperate  attempt 
to  stop  him.  As  soon  hope  to  catch 
stray  lightning!  With  a  crow  of  impish 
glee  he  had  already  dragged  his  prize 
forth,  a  long  rosary  of  carved  wood 
and  golden  beads;  it  lay  upon  her 
bosom,  and  the  Sister's  face  grew  very 
white. 

Father  Anselmo,  on  the  other  hand, 
stood  transfixed.  He  heard  the  night 
ingales,  he  breathed  the  rose-scent,  and 
beheld  a  glimmer  of  moonlight  dan 
cing  on  those  beads  as — how  many 
years  ago? 

There  was  an  utter  silence.  The 
Sister's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  floor, 
Anselmo's  on  the  rosary,  and  Luciano, 
glancing  from  one  face  to  another, 
affrightedly  began  to  cry.  At  the 
sound  Father  Anselmo  started.  He 
laid  a  soothing  hand  on  Luciano's 
93 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

head,  and  looked  gravely  across  at  the 
Sister.  Then  he  bent  his  tall  head 
humbly. 

"I  thank  you,  my  Sister,"  said  he. 

The  Sister  said  nothing. 


Father  Anselmo  walked  along  the 
narrow  streets.  The  heat  was  exces 
sive,  and  his  limbs  dragged  wearily, 
but  he  was  tasting  one  of  those  mo 
ments  of  supreme  exaltation  when  the 
spirit  seems  already  to  have  escaped 
the  still-imprisoning  body. 

How  good  was  God!  how  infinite 
His  mercies!  How  He  had  crowned 
with  loving  kindness  that  cup  which 
he,  Anselmo,  shrinking  at  sight  of  its 
exceeding  bitterness,  had  prayed  might 
pass  from  him!  Instead  he  had 
drained  its  utmost  dregs,  and  behold  it 
turned  to  sweetness  in  his  mouth! 
How  rich  the  reward  of  obedience  to 
the  divine  will !  In  all  his  once  lawless 
and  rebellious  heart  now  was  nothing 
95 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

but  peace  and  ineffable  joy — the  joy 
of  the  spirit  subject  to  God.  Among 
the  other  countless  benedictions  of  his 
life  it  was  given  him  to  live  in  pure 
communion,  as  of  spirit  with  spirit, 
with  that  soul  once  imperiled  by  his 
sin,  and  to  know  that  no  shadow  of 
that  sin  had  found  abiding-place  in  that 
soul  dearer  to  him  than  his  own.  Out 
of  his  evil  she  had  wrought  good,  and 
to-day  he  had  seen  the  sacred  symbol 
his  impious  hand  had  once  dishon 
ored,  by  her  restored  to  be  an  instru 
ment  of  her  own  salvation — perhaps  of 
his,  for  he  could  not  doubt  his  name 
mingled  with  her  prayers,  as  he  had 
mingled  hers  with  his. 

Who  knew  if  it  were  not  the  hand 
of  an  angel  which  had  guided  Luci 
ano's,  that  the  sight  might  be  vouch 
safed  him  as  a  sign  of  pardon  after  all 
these  years? 

How  good  was  God!  How  simple 
96 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

the  path  of  peace!  And  for  the  ob 
taining  of  this  peace  nothing  was 
demanded  of  man  but  to  do  right. 
How  low  the  price,  how  cheap  the  pur 
chase  of  supreme  joy ! 

At  that  moment  Father  Anselmo 
felt  an  impatience  with  all  the  blind 
world  of  souls  about  him,  who  would 
not,  as  he  had  done,  suffer  and  submit 
for  one  bitter  moment,  to  find,  as  he 
had  done,  a  tenfold  reward  the  next. 
It  was  not  only  wicked,  but  stupid. 

On  the  threshold  of  his  dwelling 
once  more  Anselmo  stopped  and  up 
lifted  a  glance  of  humblest  praise. 

"I  thank  Thee,  O  God,  that  I  did 
not  wrong  her!" 

Then  he  entered  his  narrow  monk- 
like  study,  and  on  the  threshold  a  tear 
ful  woman  met  him. 

"Would  the  Father  speak  to  her 
Giuseppe?  She  had  spoken  and 
spoken !  Would  the  Father  make  him 
97 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

hear  reason?  Everybody  knew  the 
Father's  words  were  gold.  She  had 
brought  Giuseppe,  and  a  task  she  had 
of  it !  Now  would  the  Father  speak  to 
him?  The  saints  alone  knew  what 
possessed  him,  but  the  Father,  who  was 
half  a  saint,  might  find  out." 

Handsome,  sullen  Giuseppe,  with 
the  look  of  an  animal  expecting  attack, 
stood  turning  his  hat  in  his  hands. 
The  Father's  face  grew  stern.  He  was 
familiar  with  the  romance.  Giuseppe 
loved  the  pretty  blue-eyed  Caterina, 
Baldo's  daughter,  and  the  blue-eyed 
Caterina  loved  him  also;  but  then  she 
was  already  assigned  to  the  young 
milkman,  a  personage  of  much  greater 
standing  in  the  world  than  poor,  hand 
some  Giuseppe.  What  was  the  daugh 
ter's  duty?  Obviously,  to  submit 
herself  to  her  father's  will,  and  keep 
her  plighted  troth — not  disobediently 
to  lend  ear  to  the  voice  of  the  tempter, 
98 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Giuseppe.  Again  and  again  the  priest 
had  lent  his  influence  to  bring  these 
lovers  to  reason,  and  now  his  brow 
darkened. 

' '  Still  disobedient,  my  son ! ' '  said  he. 
"I  thought  we  had  heard  the  last  of 
this.  You  promised  me." 

Giuseppe's  cheeks  flushed.  ' '  Father, 
I  did  try.  I  know  I  promised,  but  I 
might  as  well  have  promised  not  to 
breathe  or  eat.  The  very  next  time  I 
saw  her  I  walked  straight  by;  I  made 
as  if  I  didn't  see  her,  and  she  no  farther 
from  me  than  you  are!  Straight  by 
I  walked,  without  a  turn  of  the  head 
or  a  buon  giorno,  for,  you  see,  I  knew 
if  I  once  looked  it  would  be  as  if  I 
had  not  promised.  Straight  by  did 
I  walk,  and  then,  being  past,  I 
glanced — just  glanced  once,  Father — 
and — it  was  all  of  no  use!  Nobody 
could  have  helped  it.  You  would  have 
done  the  same,  Father." 
99 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

At  this  impiety  his  weeping  parent 
uttered  a  horror-stricken  cry.  Father 
Anselmo  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  to  the  defiant  but 
confused  Giuseppe. 

Giuseppe  looked  a  trifle  abashed. 

"There  is  no  more,"  he  said, 
"except  that  we  can't  help  loving  each 
other,  and  I  don't  believe  the  good 
God  intends  us  to  help  it.  And  I  have 
made  up  my  mind.  'Tonio  shall  not 
marry  her;  I  will  marry  her  myself." 

"There,  your  Reverence;  that's  how 
he  goes  on  night  and  day!  Saints 
above!  was  ever  such  wickedness!" 

Father  Anselmo  paid  no  attention  to 
this  outburst  of  the  mother.  He  spoke 
to  the  youth  commandingly. 

"My  son!" 

Giuseppe  looked  up,  apprehensive 
but  dogged.  Even  he  was  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  the  Father's  face,  the 
light  of  his  deep  eyes. 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"You  are  young,"  said  Anselmo, 
"and  it  is  hard  for  youth  to  submit 
itself.  I  have  told  you  that  it  is  your 
duty  to  give  up  this  maiden,  and  my 
words  have  failed.  But  heaven  is  gra 
cious.  I  will  speak  to  you  now  in 
other  ways. "  He  raised  his  delicate, 
wan  hand  with  a  gesture  which  com 
manded  attention.  "Give  her  up  for 
your  happiness  and  hers!  Give  her 
up,  and  the  joys  you  renounce  shall 
be  given  you  tenfold.  It  is  hard  for 
you  to  believe  this,  but  I  tell  you  it  is 
very  truth.  Eye  hath  not  seen,  ear 
hath  not  heard,  heart  of  man  hath  not 
imagined  the  happiness  God  sends  to 
the  soul  that  obeys  Him.  He  shall 
taste  the  bliss  of  paradise  in  the  flesh 
and  enter  heaven  before  he  dies." 

Swept  away  by  the  strength  of  feel 
ings  which  had  gathered  all  day  long, 
Father  Anselmo  had  spoken,  after  the 
first  words,  to  himself  and  to  unseen 

101 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

presences.  He  forgot  the  two  beside 
him ;  he  was  himself  translated  in  the 
ecstasy  he  described.  His  two  simple 
hearers  were  awed  and  vaguely  im 
pressed,  less  by  his  words  than  by  a 
mood  to  them  incomprehensible  and 
appertaining  to  that  saintship  they 
ascribed  to  him.  But  Giuseppe  recov 
ered  his  native  shrewdness  first. 

"Reverendo,"  said  he,  "that  may 
be  true  for  a  saint,  but  not  for  a  man. 
And  even  if  it  were,  see  you,  I  don't 
want  to  be  happy  without  Caterina. 
I'd  rather  have  just  a  very  little  happi 
ness  right  here  now  with  her,  that  I'm 
sure  of,  than  a  great  deal  of  happiness 
by  and  by  without  her.  I  can  wait  for 
heaven,  but  for  Caterina  I  can't  wait. 
And,  then,  heaven — it's  so  uncertain! 
At  the  very  last  minute,  perhaps,  you 
do  a  little  sin,  or  go  off — paff! — with 
out  the  sacrament,  and  all  your  trouble 
lost!" 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"Holy  Madonna!"  shrieked  the 
horrified  mother,  crossing  herself  a 
dozen  times.  "Your  soul!  think  of 
your  soul,  Giuseppe!" 

Father  Anselmo's  face  had  grown 
white,  and  he  pressed  his  clasped  hands 
tightly  to  his  breast,  but  he  said  noth 
ing. 

Emboldened  by  this  silence,  and  led 
by  a  firm  confidence  in  the  sound  good 
sense  of  his  argument  to  hope  he 
had  convinced  the  Father,  Giuseppe 
ventured  a  bold  stroke: 

"Father,"  said  he,  coming  forward 
earnestly,  "if  you  would  help  us  a  lit 
tle,  there  need  be  no  sin  at  all.  If  you 
would  say  just  a  word  to  her  father — 
he  hasn't  forgotten,  it's  only  two 
months  since  you  nursed  him  through 
the  fever.  What  you  say,  that  will  he 
do.  If  you  would  ask  him  to  give 
Caterina  to  me  instead  of  to  that  good- 
for-nothing  'Tonio  —  oh,  Reverendo, 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

there  is  nothing  we  wouldn't  do  for 
you !  Every  time  I  looked  at  Caterina 
I  should  think,  'It's  all  Father  An- 
selmo's  doing.'  And  if  you  liked,  we 
would  vow  a  bambino  to  the  Church, 
or  perhaps  a  bambina,  because  girls — 
there's  not  so  much  they  can  do! 
Holy  Mother!" 

Giuseppe  shot  suddenly  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room,  cowering  and  trem 
bling.  Quivering  with  wrath,  An- 
selmo  towered  above  him.  For  a 
moment  he  was  unable  to  speak. 

"Disobedient  and  rebellious!"  he 
thundered  at  last.  "Blind,  foolish, 
wicked  boy  that  you  are!"  He  hurled 
the  phrases  at  Giuseppe's  head.  "I 
have  laboured  with  you  enough.  Now 
I  command  you  not  to  look  upon  this 
woman  again.  If  I  am  disobeyed,  I 
shall  know  what  means  to  take  with 
you.  You  ask  me  to  help  you  to  your 
sinful  desire!  Are  you  the  only  man 
104 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

in  the  world  who  must  have  the  thing 
he  wants?  Why  should  you  not  suffer 
as  well  as  others  ?  Are  promises  to  be 
broken,  parents  to  be  set  at  naught, 
the  Church  defied,  all  that  your  vile 
lusts  of  the  flesh  may  be  gratified!" 

He  laid  one  hand  on  Giuseppe's 
shoulder,  flung  open  the  door  with  the 
other,  and  pointed: 

"Go,"  he  commanded,  sternly,  "to 
the  church,  and  pray  there  an  hour  on 
your  knees  that  God  may  pardon  you. 
Then,  and  not  till  then,  will  I  talk  to 
you." 

Obeying  the  force  of  that  compel 
ling  will  as  if  it  had  been  a  hand,  Giu 
seppe  fled  into  the  air. 

Father  Anselmo,  turning  back  with 
still  flashing  eyes  and  his  tall  form 
drawn  to  its  full  height,  encountered 
the  figure  of  the  poor  mother,  appar 
ently  rooted  to  the  floor,  which  she 
was  watering  with  her  tears.  The 
105 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

priest  paused  in  front  of  her,  and  his 
gaze  softened. 

"Go,"  said  he,  kindly,  "and  pray 
with  him.  Intercede  with  the  Ma 
donna  for  your  son.  She  was  a  mother 
herself — a  mother's  prayers  may  move 
her." 

Weeping,  but  already  half-consoled, 
the  woman  obeyed  silently. 

Left  to  himself,  the  terrible  excite 
ment  which  had  animated  Father  An- 
selmo  ceased ;  the  tension  seemed  all 
at  once  to  fail,  and  a  great,  trembling 
weakness  succeeded.  He  dragged 
himself  across  the  room  and  threw 
himself  before  the  wooden  crucifix, 
which  his  hands  embraced.  He  laid 
his  head  upon  the  base  of  the  cross. 
"Father!"  he  prayed,  "give  him 
strength  as  thou  gavest  me.  Kill  all 
the  vile  desires  of  the  body !  Give  me 
this  soul  to  save,  Father!" 


106 


VI 

It  was  hours  later  that  the  priest 
again  climbed  the  many  steps  to  the 
rooms  of  Luciano  and  his  mother,  and 
knocked  at  the  door  on  the  landing. 
It  was  opened  to  him  by  the  doctor, 
the  man  who  had  worked  side  by  side 
with  Anselmo,  healing  bodies  while  the 
priest  fortified  souls.  The  doctor's  face 
brightened  at  sight  of  Father  Anselmo, 
whom  he  could  never  be  induced  to  re 
gard  as  anything  but  a  charming  man, 
just  as ' '  the  Sister' '  was  to  him  an  ador 
able  woman.  He  it  was  who  had  given 
her  merrily  that  title,  "La  Suora." 

"Come   in,"   he   said,  "and   see  a 

pretty   sight,    and  see,    also,    whether 

you  can  assist  me  to  bring  La  Suora 

to  reason.     That  girl  hasn't  a  particle 

107 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

of  discretion ;  we  shall  have  her  on  our 
hands  next." 

"She  is  in  better  hands  than  ours," 
answered  Father  Anselmo.  "She  will 
be  kept  in  strength." 

"I  hope  you're  right,"  returned  the 
doctor,  bluntly,  "but  I  shall  venture 
to  prescribe  a  tonic,  anyhow.  As  for 
you" — he  stared  at  Anselmo — "is  sui 
cide  your  motive?" 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

"Heaven  does,  but  man  pays  no 
attention.  Look  here!"  He  frankly 
touched  the  cloth  of  the  priest's  sleeve. 
"I  know  I  don't  treat  this  with  all  the 
respect  I  might,  but  if  you  could  look 
into  my  irreligious  heart,  you  would 
find  excuses.  I  don't  expect  to  go  to 
heaven  myself,  but  you  are  safe  enough 
to  get  there  in  your  time ;  why  make 
it  before  your  time?" 

"Our  times  are  in  His  hand,  my 
friend,  and  before  the  hour  none  will 
108 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

enter  heaven,"  was  the  priest's  only 
answer. 

The  doctor  opened  the  door  wide. 
"Pass!"  said  he,  with  a  comical  little 
sigh. 

The  priest  entered  and  stopped.  It 
was,  as  the  doctor  had  said,  a  pretty 
sight  which  met  his  eye.  La  Suora, 
seated  in  a  low  chair,  held  Luciano  in 
her  arms.  The  curly  head  had  fallen 
backwards  against  her  shoulder,  and  she 
clasped  him  with  that  clasp  of  mothers 
which  instinctively  moulds  the  arms  of 
all  tender  women  when  a  child  is  laid 
in  them. 

The  annoyances  and  troubles  which 
buzzed  in  the  priest's  brain  began  to 
hum  softly,  then  to  settle  themselves 
one  by  one,  then  to  sleep  as  insects 
drowse  at  certain  hours  and  leave  the 
silence  peaceful.  He  went  and  stood 
beside  the  Sister,  looking  down  at  the 
sleeping  child. 

109 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"He  is  much  better,  is  he  not? 
How  well  he  sleeps."  And  now  the 
priest's  voice  was  softened  and  calm. 

"He  is  much  better,"  answered  the 
Sister.  She  herself  looked  unusually 
pale. 

Anselmo  hesitated  a  moment.  "I 
will  go  and  sit  awhile  with  the 
mother,"  he  said. 

The  Sister  rose  hastily  but  carefully, 
not  to  disturb  the  child.  "I  will  tell 
her,"  she  said,  a  little  hurriedly. 
"Luciano  will  sleep  now."  She  laid 
him  gently  on  the  bed,  and  then  went 
out. 

Father  Anselmo  leaned  against  the 
window  and  looked  into  the  distance. 
The  buzzing  had  ceased  entirely ;  there 
was  nothing  now  but  a  sweet  whole 
some  tranquillity  within  and  without. 
He  bathed  his  spirit  in  it ;  he  refreshed 
himself  with  deep  draughts  of  it;  he 
felt  again  that  God  is  good. 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Something  touched  his  hand. 

"Father  Anselmo!" 

He  looked  down.  The  Sister  was 
standing  beside  him,  and  she  held 
something  out  to  him. 

"This  is  yours." 

Anselmo  looked  at  the  little  brown 
and  gold  heap  in  her  hand,  and  then 
he  glanced  at  the  Sister's  face,  which 
was  paler  than  it  need  have  been. 
A  mournful  smile  played  about  her 
lips. 

"Take  it,"  she  said. 

"No,  no,"  he  murmured;  "it  is  no 
longer  mine,  but  yours.  Keep  it,  I 
beseech  you." 

The  Sister  shook  her  head  slightly. 
"I  cannot — you  do  not  understand." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and 
the  Sister's  eyes  fell. 

"You  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  keep 
it  as  a  sacred  relic,  but  it  is  not  true — 
in  that  way." 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Anselmo  felt  a  strange,  sharp  fore 
boding. 

"What— what  then?"  he  stam 
mered. 

The  Sister's  eyes  looked  straight  into 
his. 

"I  kept  it  because  of — that  night. 
I  have  worn  it  ever  since."  She 
turned  her  head  away  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  it  resolutely  back. 
"Take  it,"  she  said,  putting  it  into  the 
priest's  passive  hand.  "You  see  I 
cannot  keep  it  now."  She  moved  to 

g°- 

"Wait!"  said  the  priest,   hoarsely. 

He  leaned  against  the  window;  the 
rosary  dropped  unheeded  from  his 
hand;  his  gaunt  eyes  fastened  them 
selves  upon  the  Sister's  face.  He  was 
groping  blindly  in  the  darkness  of  this 
abyss  into  which  he  had  been  thrust. 
Little  by  little  the  sight  habituated 
itself;  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilated; 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

he  saw.  And  what  he  saw  froze  his 
blood  with  horror. 

"I  have  never  been  a  priest  in  your 
sight!" 

A  flash  of  absolute  triumph  answered 
him  in  the  Sister's  eyes. 

"Never!"  she  said. 

Anselmo  grew  white  as  death. 

"My  sin!  my  sin!"  he  groaned, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hand;;. 
There  was  a  silence — the  space  of  a 
lifetime — before  he  spoke  again. 

"You  have  told  this  to  your  con 
fessor?" 

"I  have  no  confessor." 

"No  confessor!" 

She  looked  at  him.  "Do  you  think 
I  could  have?" 

And  the  priest  felt  his  cheeks  burn 
with  shame.  But  in  another  moment 
the  old  horror  swept  in  again. 

"It  has  been  my  sin — all  mine!"  he 
exclaimed.  "I  have  driven  you  from 
"3 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

the  Church,  from  God.  I  have  made 
you  an  unbeliever — my  God!  who 
knows,  perhaps  an  atheist!" 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  Sister,  as  if 
involuntarily  to  herself,  "an  atheist! 
I — after  that!" 

And  Father  Anselmo  staggered  and 
clasped  his  hands  to  his  burning  head. 
"My  God!"  he  murmured,  "aid  me! 
for  I  do  not  understand." 

The  Sister  looked  at  him  with  a 
great,  an  ineffable  tenderness.  "No," 
she  said,  "you  do  not  understand; 
how  should  you?  But  I,  young 
as  I  was,  I  understood.  I  was  a 
woman." 

"And  yet,"  said  Anselmo,  hoarsely, 
"she  wished  to  be  a  nun!"  Returned 
his  haggard  eyes  upon  her.  ' '  I  wrote — 
I  wrote." 

"You  wrote,"  she  assented,  quietly; 
"I  had  your  note." 

His  eyes  expressed  an  anguished 
114 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

inquiry,  which  she  answered  compas 
sionately. 

"The  vocation  had  fled.  Even  the 
good  Father  was  convinced  of  that — no 
matter  how."  For  the  first  time  the 
shadow  of  a  smile  flitted  into  her  eyes 
and  out.  "I  had  other  work  to  do," 
she  added. 

The  priest  did  not  speak.  He  was 
not  even  looking  at  her.  He  was  liv 
ing  over  in  his  own  mind  the  course 
of  the  past  years,  every  incident  of 
which  found  a  tongue  to  speak  elo 
quently  with,  and  all  said  one  thing. 
They  shrieked  it  to  him  and  forced  it 
at  last  in  audible  words  through  his 
shuddering  lips. 

"Not  one  moment  of  it  has  been 
done  to  God!  You  did  it  all  for 
me!" 

Even  as  the  words  left  him  he  was 
conscious  of  a  sudden  surge  of  feel 
ing,  of — merciful  God!  what,  within? 
"5 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Through  it  .and  above  it  he  heard  her 
voice,  softly: 

"There  was  no  other  way.  I  never 
harmed  you,  and  it  has  made  you  so 
much  happier." 

Happier!  happier!  It  had  made 
him  so  much  happier!  Yes,  had  it 
not?  And  all  that  peace,  all  that  com 
munion  with  God,  that  calm  of  heart, 
that  happiness,  this  was  what  it  meant ! 
This  was  what  it  meant!  In  a  light 
ning  flash  he  saw  the  truth  in  all  its 
length  and  breadth;  he  traced  every 
joy,  every  fresh  height  of  peace,  every 
emotion  of  tender  serenity  to  its 
source,  and  they  all  sprang  from  one 
thing.  He  had  been  happier  because 
she  was  there;  because  the  thing  he 
had  conquered  had  never  been  really 
conquered ;  the  thing  he  had  renounced 
had  never  been  really  renounced.  He 
had  dwelt  in  a  danger  whose  very 
presence  she  had  been  able  to  conceal 
116 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

from  him  by  loving  arts.  And  what 
he  took  for  the  peace  arising  from  the 
love  of  God  had  been  but  the  comfort 
born  of  the  love  of  woman. 

And  to  compass  this  she  had  given 
her  youth,  her  strength,  her  years,  her 
life.  What  a  woman's  trick!  oh, 
what  a  woman's  trick!  In  her  eyes  he 
had  never  been  a  priest  at  all,  but  the 
lover  whose  warm  lips  had  lain  on  hers. 
When  she  raised  those  calm  eyes  to  his 
she  had  never  seen  the  grave,  sad 
dened,  consecrated  man  of  God,  but 
only  that  other  man,  loving  and  needy, 
weak  and  strong  by  turns,  not  a  supe 
rior  being,  but  a  suffering  soul,  to  be 
cherished  with  that  unspeakable  devo 
tion  of  womanhood.  He  had  been 
loved  as  men  are  loved  by  women — he, 
the  priest.  And  in  return  what  had 
he  felt  for  her — he,  the  priest?  Ah, 
what  indeed ! 

Then  all  this  time  that  he  had  been 
117 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

preaching,  fighting,  fulminating  against 
this  sin  in  others  he  had  been  drawing 
his  life's  sustenance  from  such  a  sin. 
He  had  been  like  one  at  famine-time, 
who  from  the  steps  of  his  house 
preaches  resignation,  patience,  submis 
sion,  to  a  starving  crowd,  and  then 
going  into  his  own  banquet-hall,  sits 
and  feasts  at  a  well-spread  table.  Oh, 
what  sin — what  loathsome  sin !  And 
yet — a  sin? 

Without  daring  to  look  again  at  the 
Sister,  who  was  kneeling  now  beside 
the  child,  he  turned  and  went  into  the 
next  room,  where  the  sick  woman  lay. 
He  stood  beside  her  bed  and  stared  at 
her. 

"You  are  better,  are  you  not?"  he 
asked,  mechanically.  He  did  not  hear 
her  answer. 

She  had  done  this — she  had  done 
this;  and  it  was,  it  ought  to  be,  a 
deadly  sin,  a  sin  unpardonable  in  the 
118 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

eyes  of  God!  He  took  the  sick  wom 
an's  hand  in  his. 

"The  fever  has  left  you;  soon  you 
will  be  able  to  go  out  a  little  on  each 
bright  day.  You  have  been  restored 
to  life.  God  is  good  to  you,  my 
daughter." 

Good,  but  just.  And  it  is  the  work 
of  a  good  and  just  God  to  put  men 
and  women  in  the  world  together  and 
forbid  them  to  love  each  other? 

"Your  child,  too,  is  restored  to  you, 
and  God  has  sent  you  friends  who  will 
help  you  to  make  a  good  man  of  him. 
There  is  much  to  make  you  happy,  my 
daughter.  Think  of  all  these  things, 
and  grow  strong  to  enjoy  them." 

And  if  God,  who  sends  a  child  even 
to  the  desolate  and  poverty-stricken, 
had  willed  that  men  and  women  should 
not  be  childless?  if  it  had  been  His 
intention  that  hearts  should  be  kept 
tender,  souls  always  young,  by  associ- 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

ation  with  these  tender  hearts  and 
youthful  souls?  if  it  had  been  meant 
that,  clinging  to  these  warm  little 
hands,  men  and  women  should  reach 
upwards  to  heights  of  purity  and 
strength  impossible  to  the  solitary,  self- 
centred  soul?  "And  a  little  child  shall 
lead  them."  Why  not  rather  a  priest? 

Father  Anselmo  began  to  tremble 
violently.  He  had  done  no  wrong, 
nor  she.  Who  then  had  wronged 
them?  Who  had  made  them  the  vic 
tims  of  this  frightful,  irreparable  fraud, 
this  cheat  which  robbed  them  of  what 
the  angels  in  heaven  could  not  make 
up  to  them  in  the  hereafter? 

"Nothing — nothing  the  matter.  I 
am  not  quite  well  to-day.  I  will  come 
again.  May  God  keep  you,  my 
daughter." 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  leaned 
against  it  for  breath. 

There  sat  the  Sister  with  Luciano  in 

120 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

her  arms.  There  were  little  lines  in 
the  Sister's  face,  a  sharpening  of  the 
outlines;  in  a  little  while  she  would 
be  no  longer  young — no  longer  young, 
but  always  alone.  She  clasped  this 
other  woman's  child  passionately  in 
her  arms.  All  at  once  the  priest  com 
prehended  the  intolerable  aching  empti 
ness  of  those  arms  through  all  the 
years. 

She  turned  her  head,  and  their  eyes 
met.  A  fly  on  the  window-pane  set 
up  an  intolerable  buzz,  and  suddenly 
the  Sister  laid  her  face  softly  in  the 
child's  hair. 

Presently  the  door  behind  her  shut 
gently. 


tax 


VII 

"And  when  I  say  a  thing,  Father 
Anselmo,  it's  as  good  as  done.  Ask 
my  wife  if  it  isn't  so,"  said  Baldo, 
energetically,  a  fixed  and  honest  look 
of  resolution  on  his  rosy  face.  "I've 
given  you  my  word,  and  I'll  keep  to 
it.  Besides,  when  all  is  said,  I  like 
the  lad  myself.  My  wife  always  did 
say  it  was  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  part 
true  lovers,  but  a  woman — "  He 
spread  out  his  pudgy  hands. 

The  priest  did  not  smile. 

"Baldo,"  said  he,  "the  next  time 
listen  to  your  wife;  and  do  not  forget 
that  you  have  promised.  Giuseppe  is 
at  my  house."  He  made  a  gesture  of 
mingled  benediction  and  farewell  and 
turned  away. 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Honest  little  Baldo  looked  after  him 
a  long  moment.  When  he  turned 
round  at  last  he  was  winking  very  fast 
indeed. 

"There  walks  a  saint,"  said  he. 

And  in  the  falling  dusk  Father  An- 
selmo  was  going — where?  As  a  priest 
should,  straight  to  the  Church. 

It  had  been  his  home  so  many  years ; 
he  was  going  to  see  if  it  were  still  a 
home.  He  was  going  to  carry  his 
wounds  to  the  healing  spring;  to  see 
if  in  the  Church  of  a  thousand  miracles 
there  might  haply  be  one  miracle  for 
him. 

A  church  presently  loomed  out  of 
the  dusk  before  him — no  matter  what 
its  name;  every  visitor  to  Rome  knows 
it.  He  climbed  the  stairs,  pushed 
aside  the  leathern  curtain,  and  entered. 
It  was  quite  empty;  only  a  few  pale 
lamps  burned  before  the  altars  in  the 
side  chapels  and  the  shrines  of  saints. 
I23 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

The  radiant  young  archangel  slept 
beneath  a  curtain. 

Anselmo  looked  from  shrine  to 
shrine,  from  image  to  image;  then  he 
moved  quickly  forward  and  prostrated 
himself  before  that  of  the  Madonna 
with  her  divine  Child.  He  clasped  his 
hands  in  a  gesture  which  must  have 
told  her  all,  it  was  so  full  of  woe. 

"O  most  holy  and  blessed  Virgin!" 
he  began,  and  stopped ;  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  image  no  longer  smiled, 
but  frowned  angrily  upon  him.  And 
he  began  again,  with  renewed  passion : 

"O  holy  Mother  of  God,"  and 
stopped  again. 

What  could  she  do  for  him?  He 
rose  to  his  feet  and  sent  his  anguished 
eyes  up  and  down  the  church,  and  on 
every  hand  they  encountered  nothing 
but  the  altars  of  celibate  saints,  sancti 
fied  men  and  women — monks  and 
nuns,  who  in  their  lives  of  self-repres- 
124 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

sion,  self-denial,  self-immolation,  self- 
torture  had  gloriously  won  to  this. 
And  on  the  high  altar  a  dead  Christ, 
in  whose  name  all  this  was  done,  who 
came  to  save  souls,  and  who  suffered 
all  things  on  earth — but  one. 

Nowhere  in  that  temple  raised  to 
the  suppression  of  the  human  was  there 
a  spot  so  large  as  the  palm  of  a  little 
child's  hand  whereon  a  broken  heart 
might  be  laid. 

The  priest  looked  desperately  up  to 
the  frescoed  dome;  there  an  angry 
God  doomed  sinners.  He  looked 
down  at  the  stones  beneath  his  feet, 
and  they  jeered  at  him  out  of  the  dusk 
in  these  letters.  He  bent  to  read 
them: 

Hie  jacetr 

Cinis 

Pulvis 

et 

Nihil 
"5 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

"Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing!"  mur 
mured  Anselmo,  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  heart.  "Ashes,  dust,  and  noth 
ing!  nothing!  nothing"  he  repeated, 
with  increasing  bitterness;  "not  even 
men!" 

Then  a  fierce  revulsion  shook  him. 

' '  Merciful  God ! "  he  cried  aloud,  and 
prostrated  himself  upon  the  stones. 
Something  slipped  against  his  fingers, 
and  they  closed  over  it.  The  little 
balls  seemed  to  throb  and  palpitate 
with  life  beneath  his  touch.  He  lifted 
it  up — that  rosary  which  seemed  to 
exhale  the  warmth,  fragrance,  and  balm 
gathered  through  years  of  lying  in  her 
bosom.  He  laid  his  thin,  white  cheek 
against  it,  and  his  parched  lips  caressed 
the  beads. 

"Merciful  God!"  he  whispered  once 
more.     Alas,  the  string,  grown  tender 
with  age  and  handling,  snapped  under 
his  tremulous  touch,  and  broke. 
126 


Ashes,  Dust,  and  Nothing 

Something  else  snapped  and  broke 
at  the  same  moment. 

The  beads,  scattering  and  pattering, 
rolled  in  all  directions  over  the  stones 
and  made  a  great  noise. 

But  the  other  made  no  noise  at  all. 

They  said,  touching  his  wan  face 
reverently,  that  he  had  worn  himself 
out  with  holy  ministrations ;  and  touch 
ing  the  thin,  white  hands  which  clasped 
a  crucifix  and  a  few  beads,  that  he  had 
died  at  his  prayers.  They  added, 
"He  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven." 

They  might  be  right  about  that  or 
not ;  one  thing  was  certain,  he  was  no 
longer  a  priest  of  God  on  earth. 

But  there  are  more  priests  of  God. 


127 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

For  days  the  block  of  yellow  corn- 
meal  which  Annunziata  laid  upon  the 
tablecloth  had  been  growing  smaller. 
Finally  one  evening  it  was  so  small 
that  even  Andrea  looked  discouraged, 
and  Gino,  resting  his  head  upon  his  lit 
tle  hand,  watched  pensively  while 
Annunziata  with  a  string — one  end  in 
her  mouth  and  one  in  her  hand  — 
divided  it  into  three  slices. 

"This  is  the  last,"  said  Annunziata, 
abruptly. 

Andrea's  face  lengthened,  and  Gino 
looked  apprehensively  from  his  father 
to  his  mother. 

i(Ch£,"  said  Andrea,  cheerfully, 
"we  can  eat  bollite  then." 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

"The  chestnuts,  too,  are  gone," 
answered  Annunziata,  shortly. 

And  this  time  Andrea  was  silent. 

"There  will  be  no  more  work  at  the 
rope-yard  till  Saturday,"  he  observed 
at  last.  "That  is  two  whole  days." 

Annunziata  said  nothing,  but  her 
husband  knew  what  the  red  spots  in 
her  cheek  meant. 

This  diabolical  pride  of  hers  came  of 
her  being  a  "foreigner" — from  quite 
the  other  side  of  Lucca,  where  Andrea 
went  in  the  hope  of  bettering  himself 
the  year  he  fell  into  despair  over  the 
cordage  rates.  He  bettered  himself 
certainly,  for  he  brought  home  Annun 
ziata  the  next  year,  and  she  imported 
with  her  these  fantastic  ideas  of  hers. 

No  one  else  minded  being  a  little 
poorer  in  a  place  where  everybody  was 
poor  at  the  best  of  times,  but  to  An 
nunziata  it  was  the  bitterness  of  death. 

It  was  not  the  being  hungry,  but  the 
132 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

having  it  known  you  were  hungry. 
She  would  cut  the  polenta  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  deal  out  the  boiled  chest 
nuts  in  pairs,  days  together,  so  long  as 
no  one  knew  it.  Once  she  had  gone, 
and  compelled  Andrea  to  go,  a  day 
and  a  half  without  food,  only  Gino 
having  a  few  scraps  of  crust.  And  the 
only  time  she  ever  turned  upon  her 
husband  was  when,  on  that  second 
day,  he  hinted — being  a  man  and  ten 
der-hearted  towards  his  stomach — that 
Pietro,  next  door,  would  never  miss  a 
handful  of  polenta  till  the  next  work 
ing  day. 

"Beg  if  you  will!"  flashed  Annun- 
ziata,  "but  not  a  morsel  will  /touch; 
it  would  choke  me." 

And  Andrea  did  not  beg.  Instead 
he  hunted  funghi  in  the  nearby  Pineta, 
and  went  surreptitiously  to  the  shore 
for  stray  shellfish  and  little  fishes, 
which  they  swallowed  raw,  Annunziata 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

sternly  refusing  to  make  a  fire  at  that 
hour  of  night  for  fear  of  neighbourly 
curiosity.  As  it  was,  she  had  an 
abiding  fear  that  Anna,  Pietro's  wife, 
suspected  the  truth  that  time,  and  this 
haunting  terror  led  her  to  make  great 
bustle  of  preparing  things  on  fat  days, 
and  to  exploit  Gino  advantageously  on 
thin  ones.  It  promised  to  be  a  re 
markably  thin  one  now. 

"Here  is  a  crust,"  she  said  to  the 
child  in  the  morning.  "Go  and  eat  it 
out  on  the  front  doorstep." 

"Yes,  mama,"  responded  Gino, 
meekly. 

"And  mind,  if  Anna  asks  you,  you 
have  had  plenty  to  eat,"  she  added, 
sharply. 

"Yes,  mama,"  assented  Gino,  obe 
diently  again. 

"If  she  sees  that,"  thought  Annun- 
ziata,  "she  cannot  say  we  have  no  food 
in  the  house." 

134 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

Then  she  deliberately  wasted  a  hand 
ful  of  fuel,  to  make  a  smoke  come  out  of 
the  chimney ;  what  can  a  smoke  mean  if 
not  that  one  is  cooking?  And  still  An 
drea's  hunger  remained  undiminished ; 
man  is  but  a  rude  animal  at  best. 

On  the  second  morning  he  said:  "If 
I  were  to  borrow  Ugolino's  gun?  Per 
haps  I  can  kill  one  of  the  uccelli  in  the 
Pineta;  they  are  flying  everywhere." 

"That  is  an  idea,"  replied  Annun- 
ziata,  who  had  no  scruples  about  bor 
rowing  a  gun,  since  it  was  not  to  eat. 
She  got  his  hat  for  him,  and  watched 
him  depart;  then  catching  sight  of 
Anna  advancing  across  the  yard,  has 
tily  tumbled  some  plates  into  the 
earthen  bowl  and  began  to  wash  them 
vigorously. 

"Sit  down,  Anna,"  she  greeted  her 
affably,  "while  I  just  finish  up  these 
dishes.  Oh,  if  one  could  live  without 
eating,  it  would  save  work!" 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

And  though  Anna  had  her  suspi 
cions,  she  went  home  all  in  doubt,  for 
no  one  born  in  the  place  would  have 
been  capable  of  such  duplicity.  When 
she  was  gone,  Annunziata  dropped 
into  a  chair. 

"Another  day,  and  they  will  all 
know!  Madonna,  aid  me!" 

She  picked  up  a  little  shaving  and 
began  to  chew  it.  Gino  would  not 
betray  her,  she  knew;  he  had  been 
bred  in  this  from  babyhood ;  his  little 
stomach  suffered  many  a  pang,  but  his 
great  heart  was.  stout. 

"It  has  never  been  so  bad  as  this," 
thought  Annunziata,  in  despair,  as  the 
day  wore  on,  noon  came,  and  no 
Andrea.  "He  has  found  nothing. 
Saints  above !  the  neighbours  will  have 
to  know  to-morrow."  She  went  to 
the  door,  and  looked  towards  the 
Pineta. 

"Good     day,      'Nunziata!"     called 
136 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

Beppe,  passing,  with  his  load  of  nets. 
' '  Are  you  ill  ?  You  look  so  white. ' ' 

' '  Che,  nothing, ' '  replied  Annunziata, 
sitting  down  on  the  step  and  taking 
Gino  in  her  lap,  who  looked  pale  and 
listless.  He  had  not  found  crusts  sus 
taining;  besides,  there  were  creases  in 
his  stomach. 

"How  hard  your  heart  beats,  ma- 
mina, "  he  said,  languidly,  leaning  his 
head  against  it. 

Just  at  that  moment  Pasquina  came 
by  with  her  baskets  of  nuts  fresh  from 
the  Apennines. 

"Che,  Gino,"  she  called,  merrily; 
"here  are  some  fat  ones  for  thee. " 

Gino's  hand  clutched  at  them,  but 
his  mother's  restrained  him  almost 
fiercely. 

"Piano,  piano!'"  she  said.  "Not  so 
greedy!  But  thanks,  Pasquina;  in  fact, 
a  child  never  has  bollite  enough. ' '  She 
nodded  to  Pasquina,  who  ran  on  gaily; 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

then  rising  with  Gino,  she  closed  the 
door  and  tore  the  shells  open. 

"Eat,  eat,  carino!"  she  said,  with 
passion,  filling  the  little  hands. 

"Thou,  too,  mamina, "  said  Gino, 
manfully;  but  Annunziata  shook  her 
head  and  turned  away. 

"God  in  heaven!"  she  thought, 
frantically;  "if  they  must  all  know 
to-morrow!" 

At  that  instant  she  beheld  Andrea 
coming  quickly  up  the  path;  in  an 
other,  he  was  in  the  room. 

"Shall  we  fast  to-day,  Annunziata?" 
he  cried  out,  triumphantly.  "Look 
there!  and  there!  and  there!"  throw 
ing  down  on  the  table  a  little  mass  of 
blue  feathers — another,  and  another. 

"Three  of  them!"  he  said,  laughing 
like  a  boy,  with  beaming  eyes.  "Those 
little  beasts  that  sing.  Was  I  lucky, 
eh?  And  now  to  get  them  over  the 
fire." 

138 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

He  began  eagerly  to  strip  the  plum 
age  by  the  handful,  but  Annunziata 
interposed. 

"Make  up  the  fire,  Andreino,"  she 
said;  "I  will  do  this."  And  gathering 
up  the  three  little  bodies,  she  started 
for  the  front  door.  "They  make  a 
mess  inside  here,"  she  explained  over 
her  shoulder. 

The  "little  beasts  that  sing"  were 
songless  as  her  fingers  worked  rapidly, 
but  the  song  was  in  Annunziata's  heart. 

Anna,  in  the  next  dooryard,  kept 
her  curiosity  till  it  threatened  to  be 
fatal;  then  she  strolled  across. 

"Just  to  get  a  breath  of  air,  'Nun- 
ziata — what  a  heat !  But,  altro !  I  see 
you  are  in  business." 

' '  A  mouthful  for  dinner, ' '  responded 
Annunziata,  carelessly;  "some  Andrea 
shot  just  now  out  walking." 

"And  a  good  shot,  too;  there  is 
nothing  better  than  those  small  ones." 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

'  '  The  little  beasts  are  fat  as  priests,  '  ' 
said  Annunziata,  deprecatingly  ;  "the 
sooner  they  are  over  the  fire  the 
better." 

"Some  will  have  it  they  are  better 
after  a  day  or  two." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  for  my  part,  I 
like  them  fresh,  with  all  the  taste  in 
them.  Not  that  I'd  like  to  think  so 
much  of  my  food  as  some." 

"That  is  true,"  assented  Anna. 
"Now,  there  are  those  two  girls  who 
sew  with  me;  one  puts  everything 
down  her  gola;  if  she  gets  a  soldo, 
down  \\er  gola  it  goes.  You  won't  be 
lieve  me,  but  I've  known  her  buy  an 
egg  for  breakfast  more  than  once.  '  ' 


'  '  Vero;  in  place  the  other  is  as  wise 
as  wise,  and  puts  her  soldi  in  aprons, 
ribbons  —  things  that  do  you  some 
good.  Well,  a  riverderla,  and  good 
appetite." 

140 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

Annunziata  carried  the  little  bodies 
in.  She  speared  them  with  a  slender 
stick,  and  turned  them  above  the  hand 
ful  of  fire.  The  savoury  smell  began 
to  fill  the  kitchen,  and  Gino  sniffed 
hungrily. 

"That  was  really  a  good  morning's 
work  you  did  there,"  said  Annunziata 
to  her  husband.  "And  so  large  they 
are  —  and  fat!"  They  might  have 
been  turkeys,  at  least,  from  her 
tone. 

She  spread  the  tablecloth  —  that 
cloth  was  another  of  Annunziata's 
vanities;  she  had  taught  Gino  to  wipe 
his  fingers  and  lips  on  it  as  neatly  as 
she  and  his  father  did.  To  say  truth, 
she  had  taught  Andrea,  also,  for  he 
was  not  brought  up  with  tablecloths, 
and  their  proper  use  does  not  come  by 
nature.  To-day  she  smoothed  it  care 
fully,  laid  a  plate,  knife,  and  fork  for 
each,  and  then  placed  the  dish,  with 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

three  brown,  juicy  morsels  in  it,  before 
Andrea,  and  they  all  sat  down. 

There  was  a  moment  of  rapt  con 
templation. 

"If  they  are  fat!"  said  Andrea, 
laughing  in  spite  of  himself  a  little  ex 
ultantly,  with  the  conscious  pride  of 
the  provider. 

"Anna  said  you  must  be  a  diavolo 
of  a  shot."  The  eternal  feminine  art 
lessly  ministered  to  this. 

"Clti,  cfo,"  returned  Andrea  mod 
estly,  but  elated;  "they  flew  just  be 
fore  my  eyes."  He  took  up  his  knife 
and  fork.  "What  shall  I  give  you, 
Annunziata?" 

"Oh,  a  bit  of  a  wing  or  leg." 

"It  is  all  good,  even  its  little  head," 
said  Andrea,  carving  carefully. 

Then  there  was  only  the  sound  of 

teeth  upon  bones,   and  an  occasional 

sigh  of  rapture  from  Gino — broken  by 

a  knock  at  the  door.     It  was  Anna's 

142 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

Elisabetta,  who  came  in  with  some 
thing  on  a  plate. 

"Mia  madre  was  roasting  bread, 
and  she  says  roasted  bread  is  good 
with  uccellini,"  said  the  child,  covet 
ously  eyeing  the  feast. 

Annunziata  smiled  hospitably. 
"Come  in,  Elisabetta;  we  are  just 
eating  a  bite.  Tell  your  mama  so 
many  thanks,  and  here" — she  swept 
the  bread  from  the  plate  and  piled  the 
remaining  chestnuts  on  it — "eat  these, 
che;  we  have  eaten  all  we  can." 

' '  She  can  say  that  she  saw  the  whole 
three  on  the  plate,"  Annunziata 
thought,  proudly;  "and  that  bread  is 
no  charity,  for  Anna  herself  saw  the 
uccellini  with  her  own  eyes." 

"What  Anna  says  is  true,"  she 
added  aloud;  "roasted  bread  is  good 
with  these  beasts." 

There  was  another  interval  of  eat 
ing;  then  Andrea,  whose  plate  was 
'43 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

cleared,  looked  wistfully  at  the  plat 
ter. 

"What  do  you  say,  'Nunziata,"  he 
faltered,  "another  little  bit?  It  seems 
that  these  make  one  more  hungry  to 
eat  them." 

"I  say,  cut  it,"  replied  Annunziata, 
recklessly.  "I'm  not  one  to  stuff;  no 
one  can  say  it — but  now  and  again  a 
good  meal — " 

' '  I  have  heard  them  say  at  the  trat 
toria  that  the  forestieri — the  Ameri 
cans  and  English — think  nothing  of 
eating  them  whole. "  He  was  carving 
the  second  skillfully  as  he  said  it. 

"Some  of  them  would  eat  an  ox,  I 
believe,"  replied  Annunziata. 

There  was  another  eloquent  interval ; 
then  Annunziata  sat  back  and  con 
templated  the  table. 

"A  whole  one  and  a  half,  and  there 
is  a  whole  one  and  a  half  still  advances 
itself,  and  we  are  all  as  full  as  pigs." 
i44 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

"Yes,"  said  Andrea;  "a  good  meat 
dinner  does  make  one  feel  better." 
He  pushed  back  his  chair. 

"Somehow,"  he  remarked  a  few 
hours  later,  "I  can  taste  those  small 
ones  yet,  and  for  my  part  I  shan't  be 
sorry  to  have  some  more  for  supper. ' ' 

Annunziata  only  laughed. 

"It  is  not  every  one  who  eats  meat 
twice  a  day,  but  for  this  once — I  must 
say  they  did  taste  well,"  she  admitted. 

"Are  you  still  eating  the  uccellini?" 
asked  Anna,  gaily,  looking  in  an  hour 
later. 

"£^!"  Annunziata  deprecated; 
' '  one  should  eat  them  fresh.  Sit  down 
and  taste  them  with  us,  Anna." 

"No,  grazie;  I  have  my  own  sup 
per  to  cook;  only  polenta,  but  what 
would  you — with  eight  to  feed — " 

"You  have  reason  there,  Anna," 
responded  Annunziata,  sympathetic 
ally.  "We  are  only  three,  but  you 
'45 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

may  believe  me,  we  do  not  eat  meat 
twice  every  day — no,  nor  even  once. 
Thanks  for  the  roasted  bread." 

"  Altro — a  nothing-at-all !     You  sent 
back  more  than  came ;  all  those  bollite. ' ' 
"You  shouldn't  ,speak  of  them — a 
centesimo's  worth." 

"And  there  still  advances  itself  half 
an  one,"  murmued  Annunziata  to  her 
self  with  satisfaction,  as  she  cleared 
the  table  later.  The  smile  lingered  on 
her  lip  as  she  sat  mending  Andrea's 
coat  that  night,  while  he  and  Gino 
slept.  She  was  the  first  one  up  in 
the  morning,  and  when  Andrea  sat 
down  to  his  early  breakfast  before 
going  back  to  work,  she  set  before  him 
a  plate  with  the  last  morsel  of  the 
uccelli  on  it. 

"Annunziata!"  he  stammered,  pro- 
testingly. 

Actually  she  gave  his  head  a  hasty 
caress. 

146 


The  Feast  of  Bluebirds 

4 '  Eat  it,  eat  it ;  there  is  still  a  crust 
for  Gino,  and  to-night  you  will  have 
half  a  franc.  Altro!"  she  laughed 
gaily,  4<I  don't  say  one  should  live  like 
this  every  day,  but  for  once: — you 
will  work  like  an  ox  after  that. ' ' 

Andrea  ate  it  every  bit,  and  rose 
with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

44 It  does  give  you  strength — meat," 
he  admitted. 

Annunziata  cleared  away  the  empty 
plate  gaily. 

"Three  good  meals,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "And  they  may  say  what 
they  like,  but  not  many  in  the  village 
can  say  they  have  eaten  meat  three 
meals  together.  Is  that  you,  Anna? 
I  was  just  clearing  away  the  last  of 
those  uccellini.  It  did  seem  we  should 
never  get  them  eaten  up!" 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

Beppino  was  small  and  thin ;  Tom- 
maso  was  robust  and  plump.  Bep- 
pino's  big  eyes  made  his  pale  face  look 
paler,  while  Tommaso'sred  cheeks  and 
lips  and  sparkling  black  eyes  made  his 
whole  face  bright  as  you  looked  at  it. 

There  was  no  good  reason  for  this 
difference,  because  they  lived  in  the 
same  squalid  house,  slept  in  the  same 
bed,  ate  the  same  miserable  food,  had 
the  same  rough  father,  and — alas !  had 
lost  the  same  excellent  mother  only  a 
few  weeks  before  these  things  hap 
pened.  The  same  little  Mediterranean 
fishing  village  gave  them  birth,  with 
the  same  sun  to  warm  them  and  the 
same  sweet  salt  air  to  breathe  —  but 
there  it  was ! 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

Any  one  who  looked  at  Tommaso's 
sturdy  frame  could  see  easily  where 
the  big  voice,  which  was  the  pride  of 
the  village,  lodged  itself;  but  it  was 
not  so  easy  to  see  where  Beppino 
tucked  away  his  sweet  alto — the  voice 
only  second  to  Tommaso's,  and  which 
supported  his  so  satisfyingly.  They 
were  the  song-birds  of  the  place,  where 
every  one  sang  more  or  less. 

"He  has  a  bird  in  his  throat,"  they 
said  of  Tommaso. 

"Take  care  of  that  voice,  my  boy," 
said  a  tourist,  bestowing  a  two-cent 
piece,  "for,  with  training,  you  will  be 
a  real  singing-bird ;  but  if  you  strain  it 
shouting  at  nights  in  all  this  damp, 
your  bird  will  lose  its  song." 

"Oh,  signore,  we  are  habituated  to 
it;  it  makes  nothing  when  one  is 
habituated,"  Tommaso  gaily  replied, 
showing  his  white  teeth  in  his  good, 
frank  smile.  A  thoroughly  lovable 
152 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

boy  was  he,  healthy  and  human.  The 
lips  which  a  moment  before  had  sung 
like  the  angels,  closed  upon  an  apple 
with  equal  zest  the  next.  With  his 
eyes  raised,  his  glorious  tones  pouring 
out,  you  would  swear  he  was  thinking 
of  the  celestial  choirs.  Nothing  of  the 
kind ;  only  of  making  good  sounds  at 
that  moment,  and  of  the  hot  polenta 
one  could  buy  with  the  copper  he 
would  probably  receive  the  next. 
Beppino,  at  his  side,  trembled  with 
pleasure  that  was  pain  in  its  intensity. 
When  Tommaso,  his  red  cheeks  purple, 
his  mouth  open  wide  to  let  the  great 
tones  out,  sang,  "  Non  ti  scordar  di  me! 
Non  ti  scordar  di  me!"  Beppino  would 
have  thrown  himself  down  at  his 
brother's  feet  if  it  would  have  served 
him  in  anything.  And  when  Tommaso 
softened  that  volume  of  music  to  sing, 
caressingly, "  Bella  sei  com  un?  angela," 
something  in  Beppe  grew  too  big  for 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

his  body,  and  expanded  through  his 
parted  lips  in  the  purest  alto  notes — 
rich,  sustaining,  aspiring.  Tommaso's 
voice  grew  twice  as  beautiful  again. 

"There  are  our  uccelli,"  said  the 
village  folk,  indulgently.  Especially 
since  the  mother's  death  the  village 
heart  beat  kindly  to  them.  No  one 
thought  it  a  pity  they  should  sing  out 
of  doors  at  night,  for  every  one  was 
"habituated"  to  such  things,  and  that 
singing  could  possibly  hurt  a  voice 
made  to  sing  with  would  have  seemed 
to  these  simple  souls  incomprehensible. 
God  gives  you  things  to  use. 

So  the  boys  sang  on,  for  fun  or  for 
bread,  just  as  it  happened,  equally 
well  either  way.  After  the  mother 
died  they  sang  oftener  for  bread. 

"If  you  are  hungry,  go  and  earn," 

the    father   was   apt   to   say  roughly. 

And  presently  their  voices,  singing  to 

the   despair   of   imitators,    would    be 

154 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

heard  through  the  evening,  and  up 
flew  casements,  open  came  doors ;  there 
was  never  any  lack  of  an  audience. 
With  good  luck  they  sometimes  gath 
ered  in  three  or  four  cents  apiece  in 
showers  of  centesimi,  even  when  tour 
ists  were  not  many. 

Tommaso  was  always  the  trump 
card ;  he  sang  the  solos. 

"He  will  sing  in  the  opera,  that 
boy, "  "  He  has  a  fortune  in  his  throat, ' ' 
said  many  and  many  an  one.  Tom 
maso  laughed  frankly  at  the  praise. 
It  was  Beppino  who  shivered  with  a 
stronger  excitement  as  he  heard.  At 
nights,  lying  awake  while  Tommaso 
slept,  he  saw  it  all:  the  great  house 
with  its  thousands  of  lights,  Tommaso 
on  the  stage  singing  "  Non  ti  scordar 
di  me!"  and  the  king  and  queen  ap 
plauding.  No  wonder  his  brother  did 
not  seem  to  him  like  other  boys,  but 
a  superior  being. 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

Meanwhile,  the  bald  present  prefig 
ured  badly  enough  that  golden  future. 
It  was  always,  "Go  and  earn,  if  you 
want  to  eat,"  nowadays,  and  the  audi 
ences  which  listened  with  the  same 
delight  every  night  were  by  no  means 
so  ready  to  give  coppers  nightly. 

"See,"  said  one,  sympathetically, 
"if  you  want  soldi,  there  is  an  Ameri 
can  signore  there  in  that  house  who 
loves  music.  Some  say  he  is  a  singer 
himself,  a  pupil  of  the  great  maestro  in 
Florence.  Go  sing  there!" 

The  American  signore,  who  was  here 
resting  his  own  voice,  sat  unsuspi 
ciously  poring  over  the  "Theory  of 
Music"  the  next  evening.  Suddenly 
his  head  went  up  like  a  war-charger's 
who  hears  the  trumpet. 

' '  Non  ti  scordar  di  me!  non  ti  scordar 
di  me!"  a  voice  of  incredible  power 
and  passion  sang  beneath  his  window. 

The  signore  made  a  single  step,  and 
'56 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

with  a  single  wrench  flung  open  the 
casement.  He  could  see  nothing  but 
a  dark  spot  in  the  darkness,  but  the 
air  from  "Trovatore"  rolled  up  to  him 
majestically.  Then,  after  a  minute's 
silence : 

"Bella!  bella  set  com'  un*  angela!" 
floated  up,  and  beneath  flowed  a  sec 
ond  melting  voice  in  alto. 

The  signore  stepped  to  his  bell-rope 
and  pulled  it  sharply. 

"Send  those  singers  up  here,"  he 
ordered,  and  meantime  he  emptied  his 
too  thin  pocketbook  of  coppers. 

"  Benissimo!"  laughed  Tommaso, 
when  the  order  was  transmitted. 
"There  will  be  polenta  to-night — per 
haps  apples." 

Two  boys,  ragged,  flushed,  smiling, 
and  breathless — for  the  stairs  to  the 
American's  room  were  many  and 
steep — entered,  caps  in  hand,  Tom 
maso  ahead,  as  befitted  the  star. 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

"But  it  is  impossible  you  boys  can 
sing  like  that!"  said  the  signore, 
sharply. 

The  boys  grinned  sheepishly  and 
looked  at  each  other  helplessly,  after 
the  manner  of  boys.  Tommaso,  how 
ever,  plucked  up  courage  to  say: 

"Oh,  yes,  signore,  it  was  we  who 
sang.  If  the  signore  wishes,  we  will 
sing  again  here." 

"Very  well,"  responded  the  signore, 
taking  a  chair  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room. 

The  boys  exchanged  a  few  words, 
twirled  their  caps  a  little,  and  sud 
denly  Tommaso  opened  his  mouth, 
and  the  walls  of  the  room  rang. 

' '  Non  ti  scordar  di  me!  non  ti  scordar 
di  me!" 

Tommaso  was  purple  in  the  face;  it 

seemed  that  he  would  burst  his  small 

body,   and  there  he  stood,    precisely 

like  a  Lucca  della  Robbia  boy  in  the 

158 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

marble  singing  frieze.  Beppino,  beside 
him,  hung  upon  his  notes,  moving  his 
own  lips  in  unison,  once  or  twice  win 
cing  a  little  when  the  great  voice  grew 
greater;  then  all  at  once,  without 
warning,  his  alto  took  up  the  strain, 
fearlessly  supporting.  The  signore 
listened,  shading  his  face  with  his 
hand. 

"Three  years,"  he  thought,  "have 
I  wasted  trying  to  learn,  and  there 
they  stand — artists!" 

When  they  had  finished  he  emptied 
the  coppers  into  Tommaso's  hand. 

"That  will  do,"  he  said,  brusquely. 
But  Beppino  had  seen  his  eyes. 

"He  is  a  pupil  of  the  maestro  in 
Florence,"  said  the  padrona  as  she  let 
them  out.  "Ah,  if  Tommasino  could 
get  a  year's  lessons  from  that  one!" 

The  next  morning  the  signore  was 
surprised  to  receive  a  visit  from  a  thin, 
white-faced  boy,  in  whom  he  scarcely 
159 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

recognised  a  Delia  Robbia  by  daylight. 
Beppino  was  almost  frightened  to  death 
at  his  own  temerity;  his  tongue  stam 
mered  painfully,  but  he  managed  at 
last  to  get  out  his  errand. 

"I  understand.  Tommaso  is  your 
brother ;  he  has  the  great .  voice,  and 
you  are  the  alto.  Yes,  and  you  want 
me  to  take  him  to  Florence  to  the 
maestro  to  be  made  a  great  singer?" 

"If  the  signore  pleases,"  responded 
Beppe,  trembling  all  over. 

"Altro!"  said  the  signore.  "All  that 
takes  money,  and  I  am  poor.  Besides, 
Tommaso  would  have  to  learn  a  hun 
dred  things,  and  study  many  years." 

"But  he  sings  so  beautifully,  sig 
nore,"  pleaded  the  boy.  "And  every 
one  says  there  is  gold  in  his  throat." 

"Without  doubt  there  is  gold,  but 
it  must  be  mined.     Is  there  nobody 
in   this   town   to  help  you,  that  you 
come  to  2i  forestieref 
160 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

"Oh,  signore,  no  one!"  said  Beppe, 
mournfully.  "We  are  all  so  poor. 
And  if  Tommaso  sings  much  more,  he 
will  spoil  his  beautiful  voice.  Cannot 
you  hear,  even  now,  sometimes,  a  lit 
tle  note  or  two?" 

"Is  this  all  you  have  to  say?"  de 
manded  the  signore,  roughly. 

"All,  signore,"  answered  Beppino, 
crestfallen. 

"Well,  then,  good  morning." 

He  called  down  the  stairs  after  Bep 
pino,  who  was  sadly  retracing  his 
steps : 

"Tell  your  Tommaso  if  he  sings  in 
the  rain  as  he  did  last  night,  he  will 
soon  have  neither  gold  nor  coppers  in 
his  throat — and  not  one  soldo  shall  he 
get  here  for  such  foolishness;  do  you 
hear?" 

"Yes,  signore,"  stammered  Beppe, 
appalled. 

He  told  Tommaso,  almost  tearfully, 
161 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

when  the  latter  proposed  making  a  few 
centesimi  that  night. 

" Bella  set  com'  un'angela!"  shouted 
Tommaso  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  for 
all-scornful  reply.  As  if  he  were  not 
habituated  to  the  rain!  And  when 
Beppino  remained  firm  in  his  fear  of 
the  signore: 

"Ebbene!"  he  exclaimed,  indig 
nantly;  "/'//  sing  then;  it  is  me  they 
want  to  hear,"  and  with  this  taunt 
went  forthwith  and  bellowed — a  beau 
tiful  bellow,  to  be  sure — under  the  sig- 
nore's  window. 

The  signore  ground  his  teeth  and 
swore  quietly,  and  at  last  flung  open 
the  window  and  hurled  a  franc-piece 
at  the  singer. 

"Alia  casa,  subito!  Sentite!"  he 
shouted,  savagely;  and  Tommaso, 
laughing  heartily,  fled,  to  consume  a 
whole  franc's  worth  of  good  things  at 
the  nearest  trattoria." 
162 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

Meanwhile  Beppino,  supperless,  was 
dampening  their  common  bed  with 
tears  until  it  threatened  to  become  as 
dangerous  night-mists. 

The  signore,  his  elbows  on  the  table 
and  his  forehead  on  his  hands,  sat  and 
thought  grimly,  while  the  "Theory  of 
Music"  lay  on  the  floor.  Surely,  it 
was  an  unnecessarily  bitter  farce  to 
come  so  far,  to  stay  so  long,  to  spend 
so  much,  only  to  find  out  one  did  not 
know  what  the  gamins  of  the  sea  did? 

And  then  there  was  Someone  at 
home. 

But  there  was  also  Music — Music 
crying  out  to  him  continually : 

"Non  ti scordar  dime!"  "Do  not 
forget  me!  do  not  forget  me!" 

When  the  boys  received  an  order,  a 

few  days  later,  to  attend  the  signore  at 

once  at  his  house,  Beppe  was  almost 

afraid  to  go.     Doubtless  the  signore 

163 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

was  furious  that  they  had  been  singing 
under  his  window  night  after  night 
(for  how  long  could  Beppino  stand  out 
against  Tommaso  and  an  empty 
stomach  combined?),  where  they  were 
invariably  received  at  first  with  obdu 
rate  silence,  then  with  hurled  coppers 
and  imprecations. 

Tommaso,  however,  was  not  afraid — 
not  he.  He  presented  himself  debo 
nairly  in  his  rags,  cap  in  hand  and 
smiling,  at  the  door.  Beppino,  paler 
and  bigger-eyed  than  ever,  shrank 
behind  him. 

"Enter,"  said  the  signore,  briefly. 
"There,  don't  try  to  talk  till  you  get 
your  breath;  then  use  it  to  sing  for 
this  gentleman."  He  turned  and 
began  to  speak  low  and  rapidly  to 
some  one  seated  in  a  capacious  chair 
opposite — a  little,  gaunt,  grey-haired 
man,  with  a  nervous  face  and  deep 
eyes. 

164 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

Tommaso  glanced  at  him.  "It  is 
some  one,"  he  decided,  quickly;  "a 
personaggio,  perhaps  a  conoscento — one 
who  knows,"  and  he  filled  his  chest. 
"  'Trovatore, '  and  be  ready,  you,"  he 
murmured  to  Beppino,  who  only 
nodded. 

"Suppose  it  were  some  one?"  he, 
too,  had  thought;  "and,  Madre  di 
Dio!  if  he  should  notice  that  little 
something  in  Tommaso's  voice! 

"Sing  not  too  loud,  Tommasino," 
he  entreated,  hurriedly. 

"Per  Bacco!  as  loud  as  I  can," 
retorted  Tommaso.  "Do  not  I  know? 
They  shall  see — they  shall  hear!" 

Forthwith  he  began,  and  never, 
surely,  had  he  sung  so  well.  The 
tones,  even,  full,  rich,  rang  to  the  ceil 
ing;  one  felt  the  walls  expand,  while 
with  a  passion  incredible,  an  art  incom 
prehensible,  this  child  of  the  street  and 
the  sea  sang: 

'65 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

" Non  ti scordar  dime!  non  ti  scordar 
di  me!" 

Beppino,  stepping  forward  fearlessly 
in  his  excitement,  with  eyes  riveted 
upon  his  brother,  followed  every  note, 
breathing  with  him,  wincing  once 
only,  involuntarily,  and  shutting  his 
eyes  when  Tommaso,  purple,  open- 
mouthed  but  glorious,  strained  a  little 
too  far  the  high  note. 

"If  only  he  would  not!"  thought 
Beppino;  "O  kind  Mother  of  God,  if 
only  he  would  not!"  Then  the  great 
golden  tones  began  dropping  again 
from  the  full  throat,  and  with  a  sigh 
of  relief  and  exultation  Beppino  opened 
his  own  lips  and  sang,  always  subor- 
dinately,  yet  always  bearing  up  the 
voice  above. 

The  old  man  sat  impassive,  his  eyes 
fastened  to  the  two  faces  before  him, 
but  the  signore,  who  with  shaded  face 
had  looked  upon  the  ground,  turned 

1 66 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

with  a  brusque  motion  of  his  hand 
across  the  eyes. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "and  you 
hear,"  for  there  was  a  loud  clapping 
from  the  street  below,  where  all  the 
passers-by  had  paused  to  hear  the 
song.  "Was  I  right?" 

"I  see — and  I  have  heard,"  re 
sponded  the  old  man,  grimly.  "And 
you  were  not  altogether  wrong."  He 
rose  deliberately,  and  crossing  the 
room  laid  a  hand  on  Beppino's  shoul 
der. 

"You  I  will  take  with  me;  I  can 
make  an  artist  of  you." 

Both  boys  stood  stricken;  Tom- 
maso's  cheerful  jaws  fell,  and  his  ruddy 
cheeks  for  once  were  pale;  Beppino, 
paler  still,  looked  dumbly  at  the  maes 
tro,  at  Tommaso,  at  the  signore. 

"Of  course  it  is  that  one,"  said  the 
signore.  "I  congratulate  you,  maes 
tro,  on  a  pupil  who  will  do  you  honour. 
167 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

There  will  be  no  trouble  about  the  fam 
ily  ;  I  have  inquired,  and  I  will  attend 
to  transferring  the  funds  at  once." 

"To  the  devil  with  your  funds!" 
interrupted  the  maestro,  rudely. 
"What  have  I  to  do  with  your  funds. 
This  boy  I  take  because  he  has  music 
in  him.  It  is  none  of  your  business 
whatever,  and  you  will  attend  to  your 
business — that  is  to  say,  your  studies — 
strictly.  Do  you  think  you  are  the 
only  person  in  the  world  possessing 
funds?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  replied  the 
American,  bitterly,  "I  am  aware  that 
almost  any  one  possesses  more.  You 
take  the  boy,  then?  So  much  the 
better;  I  give  up  my  place  to  the 
other.  Either  has  ten  times  more  of 
music  in  him  than  I,  and  it  is  Music 
I  saved  the  money  for,  after  all.  Take 
them  both  with  you,  maestro;  I  will 
be  at  the  charge  of  this  one." 
168 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

"Signer  Stupido!"  stormed  the 
maestro;  "will  you  be  quiet!  You 
think — you  Americans — that  it  is  only 
you  who  can  do  fine  things;  you  are 
the  vainest  people  in  the  world.  But 
be  at  the  trouble  to  learn  otherwise! 
You  came  to  Florence  to  study 
music,  and — per  Bacco! — study  music 
you  shall  so  long  as  I  can  teach  you 
anything.  As  for  these  two,  I  take 
them  with  me.  This  other  has  gold 
in  his  voice,  as  they  say,  and  perhaps 
may  learn  something.  Are  you  to 
teach  me  how  much  I  shall  do  for 
Music — I,  who  was  a  musician  when 
you  were  in  your  cradle?  Besides," 
he  added,  craftily,  "I  am  not  doing 
this  for  charity — diavolo,  no!  I  leave 
that  to  fools  of  Americans.  Every 
soldo — every  centesimo — shall  these 
young  ones  pay  back  to  me  some  day ; 
and  if  /  am  dead  they  shall  swear  and 
sign  to  pay  it  to  some  other  like  them- 
169 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

selves,  for — per  Bacco! — God  is  not 
going  to  stop  making  beautiful  voices 
with  these  two.  As  for  you — yes,  do 
you  hear? — I  will  make  an  artist  of 
you,  too,  signore,  whether  you  will  or 
not.  And  now  an  end  to  these  follies. 
I  am  going  to  the  house  of  these  two. 
Come,  my  children." 

Speechlessly,  meekly,  the  two  boys 
accompanied  the  old  man  downstairs 
and  through  the  wondering  throng  at 
the  door.  Tommaso,  however,  speed 
ily  began  to  recover  his  spirits.  After 
all,  he  did  not  so  much  mind  Beppino's 
triumph,  if  he  was  going  also  to  Flor 
ence.  The  maestro  had  admitted 
there  was  gold  in  his  throat,  and  gold 
is  the  real  thing  in  this  world.  He 
walked  along  then  cheerfully,  swelling 
indeed  with  pride  and  excitement. 

But  the  maestro's  hand  rested  on 
Beppino's  shoulder,  and  from  time  to 
time  the  boy's  shy  eyes  glanced  up 
170 


The  Uccelli  with  Golden  Voices 

into  the  maestro's  grim  face  with  a 
look  of  wondering  worship  and  confi 
dence.  Music  was  between  them 
already. 

As  for  the  signore,  left  alone,  he 
threw  himself  on  the  dingy  sofa  and 
cried  like  a  child. 

For  he,  too,  loved  Music,  and  so 
did  Somebody  at  home. 


171 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Basso,  brutto,  povero!"  Gemma 
said  it  with  a  spiteful  emphasis  meant 
expressly  for  her  sister's  ear,  and  Gina 
heard,  but  disdained  to  take  any  notice. 
Only  her  head  was  held  a  trifle  higher, 
and  the  nod  which  Mario  received  as 
he  passed  with  a  half-timid  glance 
was  cooler  than  even  he  was  accus 
tomed  to.  For  Gina  could  feel  Gem 
ma's  malicious  eyes  through  the  back 
of  her  head.  "Basso,  brutto,  povero!" 
sang  Gemma,  tauntingly  again,  dan 
cing  off  a  step  to  look  at  herself  in  the 
hall  mirror.  There  were  few  sights  in 
R better  worth  the  trouble. 

By  comparison  with  her  handsome 
sister,  Gina,  handsome  enough  herself, 
was  plain.  Handsome  women  were 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

the  rule  in  this  sea-nurtured  town — 
Greek  statues  walking  on  the  strongest 
and  most  delicate  ankles  in  the  world, 
making  nothing  of  a  child  or  two  in 
their  arms  and  great  baskets  of  fish  or 
piles  of  faggots  on  their  stately  heads. 
All  these  saluted  Gina  with  respect  as 
they  passed  and  repassed  the  door  of 
the  Albergo  Europa.  Were  there  but 
two  hotels  on  the  farthermost  peaks  of 
the  Apennines,  these  would  be  called, 
respectively,  "Hotel  di  Roma"  and 
"Albergo  Europa."  Among  its  ten 
thousand  namesakes,  the  Albergo 
Europa,  of  which  Gina's  father  was  pro 
prietor,  was  doubtless  the  humblest. 
Nevertheless,  it  contained  twelve 
rooms,  was  three  stories  high,  and 
towered  by  two  of  them  above  the  rest 
of  the  town,  except  for  the  deserted 
summer  palace  of  a  Bourbon,  which 
lent  age  and  dignity  to  the  principal 
piazza,  and  for  a  modern  villa  or  two, 
176 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

ambitiously  reared  on  the  sea-front  by 
Tuscan  nobility.  People  were  already 
discreetly  forgetting  the  days  when  the 
Albergo  had  but  two  stories ;  as  to  the 
time  when  it  had  but  one,  that  was 
forgotten ;  and  only  the  captious  and 
envious  haggled  over  allowing  the  titles 
of  "signer"  and  "signora"  to  the 
hard-working  Bonselli,  who  had  surely 
earned  them,  if  any  ever  did  earn 
titles. 

Gina  might  remember  as  a  child 
something  of  the  plain  days  of  the 
family,  but  Gemma,  four  years 
younger,  knew  them  only  as  displeas- ' 
ing  tradition,  and  held  her  head  as 
loftily  under  a  feathered  hat  as  any 
signorina  of  generations.  The  Signora 
Bonselli  could  never  get  to  feel  quite 
comfortable  in  a  hat  herself — so  much 
she  was  free  to  confess;  but  Gemma 
would  insist  upon  wearing  hers  and 
compel  her  sister  to  do  likewise  when- 
177 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

ever  they  sauntered  down  the  long 
molo  to  watch  the  crowds  of  tourists 
watching,  in  their  turn,  the  fishing- 
boats  coming  in  at  sunset  with  the 
catch.  At  such  times  many  a  glance 
did  the  face  under  Gemma's  hat 
receive  from  the  lounging  nobility  of 
several  nations ;  and  at  least  one  pair 
of  eyes  followed  despairingly  the  face 
beneath  Gina's.  How  did  not  that 
hat  accentuate  the  gulf  which  sepa 
rated  a  mere  mariner  from  the  hotel- 
keeper's  daughter! 

It  was  a  gulf  which  frightened  Gina 
herself.  One  may  not  be  one's  beau 
tiful  sister,  and  still  possess  some  sense 
of  the  value  of  one's  station  in  life  and 
the  be-hatted  privileges  it  carries  with 
it.  In  fact,  the  less  one  is  a  beauty 
the  more  reason  one  has  to  cling  jeal 
ously  to  what  one  has.  With  a  mere 
kerchief  knotted  about  her  head  Gem 
ma  would  still  have  been  the  prettiest 
178 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

girl  in  R ;  her  hat  alone  differen 
tiated  Gina  from  a  hundred. 

Mario,  however,  remembered  her 
without  a  hat — a  rosy-cheeked,  tum- 
bled-haired  child,  with  bright  curls 
all  atoss  about  her  face,  in  the  days 
when  they  shared  the  brown  chest 
nuts  and  plucked  grapes  at  the  ven- 
demmia  together.  It  was  not  her  hat 
which  made  her  beautiful  to  him ;  for 
this  very  reason  the  elders  shrugged 
their  shoulders  at  this  possible  son-in- 
law. 

"Mario's  wife  will  never  wear  a 
hat,"  said  her  father,  with  this  shrug. 
"It  will  be  well  for  her  if  she  has  a 
new  kerchief  for  festas.  Ch%,  think 
better  of  it,  Gina." 

"What  would  you?"  added  soft 
hearted  Signora  Bonselli,  deprecat- 
ingly.  "Mario  is  a  good  lad,  but  a 
good  heart  alone  will  not  keep  you 
warm.  And  a  mariner!  a  baby  every 
179 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

year,  that  means,  and  fifteen  francs  a 
month — and  the  sea  forever  hungry!" 

"Give  up  your  hat  and  wear  a  ker 
chief,  and  be  laughed  at  by  every 
one — all  for  the  sake  of  that  short, 
homely,  poor  Mario!"  Gemma  cried, 
tauntingly.  "You  are  pazza,  Gina! 
Live  in  one  of  those  little  houses  back 
of  us,  and  slave  all  the  months  while 
your  husband  is  away!" 

Gemma  could  never  forgive  Mario 
for  being  the  one  man  who  looked 
continually  at  Gina  as  other  men  looked 
at  herself.  Gina  had  a  contadina  soul, 
Gemma  indignantly  asserted ;  she  had 
no  sense  of  what  was  due  her  station, 
and  was  always ' '  remembering"  things. 

"Let  her  do  as  she  will,"  said  the 
father;  "it  is  her  affair.  It  is  not  as 
if  she  were  our  only  one ;  Gemma  will 
not  throw  herself  away."  Only  they 
did  not  economize  warnings,  as  indeed 
was  their  right,  to  their  daughter. 
180 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

So  day  after  day  Gina  stood  before 
her  mirror,  adjusting  the  hat  which 
Mario's  wife  could  never  wear,  and 
was  inscrutable  even  to  sharp-eyed 
Gemma.  S9metimes  she  took  it  off 
and  contemplated  herself  without  it 
(when  Gemma  was  not  there),  but 
always  she  ended  by  putting  it  on  and 
sallying  forth  to  the  molo,  where 
Mario's  dark  eyes  beheld  in  its  nod 
ding  plumes  the  daily  funeral  of  his 
hopes.  Between  the  hat  and  him  it 
was  an  absolute  choice;  as  his  wife 
she  would  be  hooted  out  of  town 
should  she  attempt  to  wear  it,  and 
Mario's  own  pride  would  have  forbid 
den  the  attempt.  Yet  what  had  he  to 
offer  in  compensation?  It  only  made 
him  the  prouder  and  more  insistent 
that  his  reason  pointed  out  the  gulf 
between  mere  love  and  the  solid  things 
of  life — such  as  ostrich-feathers. 

Thus  when  Gemma  once  more  sang 
181 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

out,  in  just  tune  and  time  with  foot 
steps,  her  "Basso,  brutto,  povero!" 
Mario  wheeled  suddenly  on  those  quick 
feet  of  his  and  swung  impetuously 
back  to  the  doorway,  his  brown  cheek 
reddening  and  his  eyes  ablaze. 

"Choose  now!"  he  exclaimed,  while 
Gina  half-shrank,  and  Gemma,  a  little 
frightened,  yet  smiled  with  malice. 
"Small  and  poor  and  ugly  I  may  be, 
as  Gemma  says,  but  small  and  poor 
and  ugly  as  I  am,  you  must  take  me  or 
let  me  go  forever." 

Gina  was  frightened  for  a  moment, 
then  angry,  for  Gemma  was  laughing 
maliciously ;  and  after  all,  was  she  not 
the  hotel-keeper's  daughter? 

"You  are  not  my  master,  to  speak 
so  to  me, ' '  she  said,  proudly. 

Mario  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 
(Oh,  if  Gemma  only  had  not  been 
there !) 

"Either  that  or  nothing." 
182 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Then  it  is  nothing,"  flashed  Gina, 
and  would  have  fallen  at  his  feet  the 
next  moment. 

Mario  took  off  his  cap.  "Addio, 
then,  Signorina  Bonselli,"  he  said, 
bowing  very  low,  with  a  white  face. 

Gina  said  not  a  word ;  she  stood  like 
stone  and  watched  him  go. 

"At/"  mocked  Gemma,  "Ohime! 
I  suppose  you  will  put  on  a  long  face 
now,  and  let  even  the  Adelaide  see  he 
has  jilted  you!" 

"I  will  kill  you  if  you  say  a  word!" 
replied  her  sister,  with  blazing  eyes,  as 
she  tore  by  and  slammed  the  door  of 
their  common  bedroom. 

He  was  there  on  the  ntolo;  he  brushed 
against  her  as  he  took  one  end  of  the 
rope  to  draw  the  boat  up  the  canal,  in 
company  with  the  other  men,  but  he 
brushed  past  her  without  a  glance. 
Thus  it  had  been  for  a  whole  week. 
183 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  bear  it," 
she  thought.  "Holy  Mary!  it  will 
kill  me  if  he  does  that!" 

Early  the  next  morning  she  stole 
away,  while  Gemma  still  slept,  and 
laid  the  coral  heart  Mario  gave  her 
before  the  Virgin's  shrine. 

"Only  send  him  back!  I  did  not 
mean  it!" 

Later,  Gemma  and  she  walked  in 
the  Pineta — the  slow  Sunday  prome 
nade  under  the  tall  pines,  with  the 
blossoming  gorse,  all  green  now,  all 
golden  later.  Beneath  the  edges, 
over  a  rim  of  sand,  danced  the  water, 
one  sparkle  of  blue  all  the  way  to  pur 
ple  Spezzia.  The  sword  of  an  occa 
sional  officer  glanced  in  the  sunlight 
prettily,  and  all  the  handsomest  girls 
in  town  strolled  chattering  and  casting 
envious  eyes  at  obvious  lovers.  Gem 
ma  was  soon  supplied  with  a  cavalier — 
sue  might  have  had  a  dozen ;  and  Gina 
184 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

walked  silently  with  them,  her  face 
indifferent  under  the  big  hat,  her  heart 
pounding  within  her  holiday  dress. 
The  two  sisters  were  gowned  in  imita 
tion  of  the  summer  visitors;  only 
subtle  ways  of  lifting  skirts  and  the 
like  betrayed  the  counterfeit  to  the 
connoisseur.  Half-way  through  the 
Pineta  Gina  had  sustained  the  throb 
bing  tension,  her  eyes  fastened  upon 
the  bright  waters,  which  she  hardly 
saw,  when  she  felt  Gemma  give  her  a 
covert  dig  with  her  elbow,  without 
interrupting  by  a  phrase  her  badinage. 

It  was  he,  and  Gina  needed  no  sec 
ond  glance  to  burn  into  her  brain  the 
face  beside  him,  under  its  pale  oval  of 
hair.  They  passed  without  a  saluta 
tion;  indeed,  Adelaide's  eyes  were 
glued  to  her  companion's  and  blind 
else.  This  girl  would  never  keep  him 
waiting,  it  was  plain  to  see. 

"Basso,  brut  to,  povero!"  hissed 
185 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Gemma,  and  though  Mario's  eyes  never 
turned  their  way,  Gina  saw  the  red 
creep  slowly  up  the  cheek  half  hidden 
from  her.  The  parasol  handle  snapped 
in  Gina's  hand.  Gemma  gave  her  sis 
ter  a  curious  glance. 

By  the  next  day  it  was  in  every 
one's  mouth  that  Mario  was  to  marry 
the  pale  Adelaide. 

Such  a  marriage  of  hunger  with 
thirst  was  too  common  to  provoke 
comment,  nor  were  the  parties  to  it 
conspicuous  enough  to  deserve  more 
than  that  interest  felt  in  every  event 
in  a  place  so  small  that  nothing  is 
unimportant.  The  real  zest  was  given 
to  the  situation  by  the  relation  of  a 
third — the  Bonselli's  daughter.  Every 
one  wished  to  see  how  she  looked, 
and  the  girl  was  too  proud  to  deny 
them  the  sight. 

She  had  reason  to  cling  to  the  big 
hat  in  the  days  which  followed;  be- 
186 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

neath  it  her  cheeks  grew  paler;  Ade 
laide's  were  roses  by  comparison, 
blooming  with  an  unknown  happi 
ness  of  which  the  poor  little  menta 
maker  had  never  dreamed.  A  frail 
and  consumptive  creature  she  had 
always  been,  even  when  the  two,  as 
children,  ran  about  the  sands  together. 
The  Bonselli's  daughter  did  not  disdain 
her  humbler  playmate  then,  but  now, 
as  she  met  her,  fancying  a  new  pride 
in  her  bearing,  she  hated  her.  Ade 
laide  was  invariably  there  on  the  molo 
when  the  boats  came;  it  was  to  her 
Mario  waved  his  beretta,  and  the  two 
walked  off  together  as  if  already  wed. 

"Mary,  aid  me!"  cried  out  the  girl's 
heart,  who  watched,  but  externally 
she  made  no  sign. 

She  stood  one  evening  thus,  watch 
ing  Adelaide,  who,  with  her  tray  of 
peppermints  suspended  about  her  neck 
and  her  busy,  thin  hands  knitting 
187 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

steadily,  scanned  the  incoming  boats 
with  eagerness.  Gemma  and  two  or 
three  young  men  were  jesting  near, 
and  Gina's  eyes  encountered  Adelaide's 
just  as  Mario  bounded  up  the  landing 
steps. 

"Bring  me  some  menta"  said  Gina, 
haughtily,  in  a  tone  of  command. 

Adelaide  flushed,  but  approached 
humbly ;  it  was  not  for  her  to  offend 
the  Bonselli's  daughter. 

"Ten  sticks,"  said  Gina,  coldly, 
tossing  a  half-franc  down  upon  the 
tray. 

"I  have  but  seven,  signorina, "  fal 
tered  Adelaide. 

"Keep  the  change,"  responded 
Gina,  taking  the  candy,  with  a  disdain 
ful  gesture. 

Adelaide  flushed  again,  but  before 
she  could  speak  a  quick  brown  hand 
snatched  up  the  coin. 

"Give  the  signorina  her  money!" 
1 88 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Mario  commanded,  his  voice  quivering 
with  anger.  "We  do  not  take  char- 
ity." 

Adelaide  held  out  the  money 
timidly. 

"Take  back  your  menta,  then,"  said 
Gina,  coldly. 

"You  are  welcome  to  it,  signorina, " 
stammered  Adelaide. 

"  I  do  not  take  gifts. ' ' 

"There  is  the  canal,  then,"  replied 
Mario,  coldly,  indicating  the  dark 
stream.  He  bowed  ironically,  and 
passing  his  hand  through  Adelaide's 
arm,  drew  her  away,  without  another 
glance  at  the  group.  A  sharp  splash 
attested  the  fate  of  the  peppermint, 
but  Mario  walked  straight  ahead,  un 
consciously  hastening  his  betrothed's 
footsteps  to  the  limit  of  her  strength. 
Suddenly  he  perceived  that  she  was 
weeping  softly. 

"Do  not  mind  it,  cara  mia,"  he 
189 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

said,  with  mingled  kindness  and  bitter 
ness.  "It  is  not  you  she  wished  to 
insult." 

"It  is  not  only  that,"  faltered  she, 
wiping  her  eyes. 

"What  then?"  His  voice  was  un 
consciously  impatient. 

"The  seven  soldi,"  murmured  the 
poor  girl.  "If  you  knew,  amico  mio, 
how  much  they  are  to  us." 

He  dropped  her  arm.  "Those  mis 
erable  soldi!  Are  they  more  to  you 
than  your  good  name — or  mine,  if 
you  care  nothing  for  yours!  Would 
you  have  taken  her  charity,  then?" 

1 '  No,  oh,  no ! "  cried  Adelaide,  fright 
ened  half  to  death.  "Do  not  be  angry, 
I  beg  of  you.  It  is  only  that  we  have 
nothing  more  to  make  the  menta  of. 
It  was  the  last  I  had ;  and  we  have 
eaten  only  polenta  for  a  week,  and  seven 
soldi — it  is  so  much — my  mother  would 
have  been  so  pleased.  Do  not  be  angry 
190 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

with  me!"  She  clasped  his  arm  with 
her  thin  hands  imploringly. 

Had  he  loved  her,  it  would  have 
touched  him  or  made  him  angrier. 
As  it  was,  he  stood  a  moment  strug 
gling  with  his  solitary  bitterness ;  then 
spoke  gravely. 

"Forgive  me,  Adelaide;  it  is  I  who 
was  wrong.  The  menta  was  yours,  and 
I  know  too  well  how  much  you  need 
the  money.  I  had  not  the  three  soldi ; 
but  to-morrow  I  shall  have  my  share 
from  the  catch  —  perhaps  to-night.  I 
will  bring  the  seven  soldi  to  you." 

"No,  no,"  protested  Adelaide. 
"It  does  not  matter — if  you  are  not 
angry." 

"Why  not?"  replied  he.  "In  a 
few  weeks  we  shall  share  all.  No,  I 
am  not  angry.  It  is  you  who  might 
be  angry  with  me."  He  stroked  the 
hand  on  his  arm  kindly,  but  even  as  he 
did  so  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  she 
191 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

against  whom  was  all  his  bitterness 
would  never  have  made  such  a  mistake ; 
she  would  never  have  had  a  tear  for 
the  seven  soldi,  had  they  been  all  that 
stood  between  starvation  and  her.  He 
forgot  what  a  lifetime  of  slow  starva 
tion  does  to  break  down  the  stubborn- 
est  pride.  But  he  was  very  gentle  to 
his  betrothed,  and  her  pale  face 
bloomed  again  when  he  parted  from 
her  at  the  door.  She  did  not  hear  the 
impatient  sigh  with  which  he  turned 
away,  nor  dream  that  he  would  ever 
think  again  of  the  Bonselli's  daughter 
after  to-day. 

The  Bonselli's  daughter  did  not 
dream  so,  either. 

"He  would  not  even  touch  my  hand 
to  give  me  back  the  money  himself, ' ' 
she  thought,  over  and  over. 

That  night  she  frightened  Gemma 
for  the  first  time.  Casting  her  hat  reck 
lessly  on  the  bed,  she  flung  herself 
192 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

after  it,  and  sobbed  so  terribly  that 
Gemma  stood  aghast,  forgetting  to  go 
even  to  the  rescue  of  the  hat,  which 
lay  there  crushed. 

"He  shall  never  marry  her!"  Gina 
cried,  passionately.  "I  will  put  a 
malediction  on  her." 

Gemma  turned  pale  and  crossed  her 
self.  "Guaif  Gina,"  she  exclaimed, 
"you  would  not  do  that;  the  priest 
says  they  come  back  to  one!" 

But  Gina  had  already  risen,  silent 
and  cold  again,  to  her  feet,  and  only 
responded  with  a  shrug. 

Nevertheless,  Mario  and  Adelaide 
were  married  the  following  month,  and 
began  housekeeping,  with  Adelaide's 
old  mother,  in  one  of  the  smallest 
houses  in  town,  back  of  the  Albergo 
Europa;  and  on  the  next  Sunday, 
according  to  custom,  the  newly  married 
pair  walked  in  the  Pineta,  where  all 
the  town  might  see  them. 
193 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Gina  and  Gemma  walked  there,  also, 
and  a  nephew  of  the  Vanni  walked 
with  Gina.  He  had  a  little  shop  in 
the  town,  and  his  uncle  was  known  to 
be  putting  away  money.  Gina  and 
Gemma  wore  new  gowns  and  their  large 
hats. 

"Che!"  scoffed  Gemma;  "did  you 
see  the  wife  of  Mario?  Not  a  silk 
gown  of  any  kind,  but  her  marriage 
black!  Moreover,  it  was  made  over 
from  her  mother's."  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

But  above  that  rusty  black  the  face 
of  Adelaide  seemed  to  Gina  to  glow 
with  triumph  which  there  was  no  hat 
to  hide,  and  she  held  Mario's  arm  with 
an  air  of  possession. 

Is  there  any  suffering  like  this? 

It  wore  into  Gina's  very  life  all  sum 
mer,  deepening  with  every  outgoing  of 
the  boats,  and  each  time  that  she  stood 
among  the  crowd  on  the  molo  and 
194 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

beheld  Adelaide,  the  wife,  awaiting 
her  husband's  return,  the  lines  of  her 
face  were  drawn  more  sharply. 

There  was  a  change  also  in  the  face 
of  Adelaide  as  the  summer  wore  on; 
that  pale  countenance  seemed  thinner 
and  paler;  certain  lines  of  delicacy, 
shadows  of  suffering,  deepened  about 
the  blue  eyes.  Gina,  who  watched 
her  incessantly,  often  surprised  her 
with  her  gaze  fastened  on  the  distance, 
silent,  while  her  shadowy  hands  knit 
rapidly. 

"£#£/"  said  some  one  in  her  hear 
ing  ;  ' '  the  Adelaide  grows  more  meagre 
all  the  time;  a  fisherman's  wife — and 
she  will  have  something  besides  her 
menta  to  carry  before  long. ' '  A  laugh 
concluded  the  prophecy. 

Gina  started.  She  looked  at  Ade 
laide  and  hated  her.  A  man  may 
envy  a  rival  lover;  the  woman  knows 
there  is  a  deeper  rivalry  than  this. 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

And  at  that  moment  Adelaide  turned 
and  looked  at  Gina  with  a  new,  an 
unfathomable  expression,  then  turned 
again  to  the  water,  over  which  the 
boats,  slowly  propelled  with  oars, 
were  advancing  on  a  sea  of  golden 
glass. 

"Mary,  aid  me!"  prayed  Gina, 
wildly.  In  how  many  tones  of  the 
soul's  voice  has  not  the  Woman,  both 
mother  and  virgin,  been  addressed. 

' '  Mario  is  going  on  the  long  voyage, 
remarked  Gemma,  carelessly,  a  few 
days  later.  "And  no  wonder.  They 
have  scarcely  bread  now,  and  with 
another  mouth  to  fill — "  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders  as  usual. 

Gina  answered  only  with  a  counter- 
shrug. 

"I  wonder  if  she  really  did  put  the 
malediction  on  her?"  thought  Gemma, 
looking  curiously  at  her  sister.     Ma 
rio's  luck  had  been  noticeably  bad ;  his 
196 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

was  the  poorest  catch  invariably,  and 
his  boat — the  Buona  Fortuna — steadily 
belied  its  name. 

Gemma  whispered  her  wonder  to 
the  apothecary,  who  naturally  was  un 
able  to  solve  it.  It  was  not  for  him 
to  say  what  power  might  reside  in  the 
malediction  of  his  betrothed's  sister. 
She  was  nothing  like  a  sister  any 
more,  Gemma  complained — this  silent, 
gloomy  girl,  who  would  receive  the 
attentions  of  nobody.  "I  would  have 
taken  up  with  somebody  out  of  pride," 
said  Gemma.  "Now  people  all  begin 
to  say  he  jilted  you." 

What  was  it  to  Gina  what  they  said  ? 
She  stood  on  the  molo  when  Mario 
went  out  on  the  long  voyage,  waving 
his  hand  to  his  pale  wife  as  the  big 
boat  drew  out  of  the  canal;  and  as  it 
swept  slowly  by,  for  the  first  time  in 
months  his  eyes,  instead  of  avoiding 
Gina's,  looked  straight  into  hers. 
197 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

All  the  summer  following  the  Ade 
laide  moved  more  and  more  slowly 
about  the  town,  carrying  with  difficulty 
her  tray  of  menta,  for  it  was  no  disgrace 
for  a  fisherman's  wife  to  do  her  part. 
Certainly  she  looked  very  badly,  and 
as  she  crept  about,  people  shook  their 
heads  in  foreboding. 

"They  say,"  said  Gemma  one  day, 
"that  the  Adelaide  is  in  a  bad  way." 

"She  was  always  like  a  tallow  can 
dle,"  Gina  answered,  coldly. 

"And  they  say" — Gemma  cast  a 
half -frightened  glance  at  her  sister — 
"they  say  you  have  put  a  malediction 
on  her,  and  Mario  will  never  come 
back." 

Gina  smiled  contemptuously. 

"But  she  did  not  deny  it,"  Gemma 
whispered  to  her  lover  an  hour  later. 

Who  does  not  deny,  admits.  It  was 
soon  public  property  that  the  Bonselli's 
daughter  admitted,  without  remorse, 
198 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

having  put  a  malediction  on  that  un 
happy  wife  of  Mario. 

"Eh,  Adelaide  has  a  child,  and  no 
time  lost,"  said  the  gossip  of  the 
town,  stopping  at  the  Albergo  door 
one  day.  *  ' 

"A  masculine  or  a  feminine?" 
inquired  Signora  Bonselli,  with  mild 
interest. 

"A  feminine,  of  course;  when  did 
the  Adelaide  ever  have  fortune?" 
responded  the  gossip,  with  a  side  glance 
at  Gina  as  she  said  it. 

"What  misfortune  I"  sighed  the 
compassionate  signora,  and  a  passing 
wonder  crossed  her  whether  her  daugh 
ter  could  really  have  had  the  heart  to 
push  vengeance  so  far.  Can  there  be 
a  worse  un-luck  than  girls  in  a  fisher 
man's  family? 

"That  is  the  beginning,"  she  added, 
with  a  shrug,  hoping  Gina  was  taking 
this  to  heart. 

199 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

She  was.  The  blood  pounded 
through  her  veins  like  the  sea  in  tem 
pest. 

Nobody  thought  of  asking  for  the 
mother.  In  a  town  where  every 
woman  bore  her  twelve  to  fifteen,  like 
a  healthy  vine,  it  was  taken  for  granted 
she  was  competent  to  do  her  woman's 
work.  It  was  not  reckoned  a  peculiar 
hardship  that  the  young  father  was 
absent  at  his  first-born's  birth;  these 
are  women's  matters.  Moreover,  life 
and  death  are  in  the  bondage  of  the 
sea,  and  the  boats  obey  its  tides. 

In  some  fashion  the  Adelaide  had 
fulfilled  her  part.  Gina's  eyes,  raven 
ous  with  a  hunger  she  did  not  try  to 
conceal,  being  unaware  of  it,  devoured 
her  the  first  time  she  encountered  the 
slender  shape,  the  menta  basket  sus 
pended  a  little  to  one  side,  and  a 
bundle  enveloped  in  a  shawl  on  her 
arm.  The  knitting  fingers  were  busy 
200 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

now  with  that  restless  load,  at  whose 
every  motion  the  watcher  quivered 
also.  It  was  but  natural  Adelaide 
should  walk  wearily  with  that  unwonted 
burden,  and  only  when  her  eyes  crept 
stealthily  to  the  mother's  face  Gina 
felt  a  shock.  The  head  was  skull-like 
in  its  thinness,  and  the  sunken  eyes 
burned  in  their  sockets.  In  that  shock 
of  surprise  Gina  encountered  the  covert 
glance  and  whisper  of  Gemma  and  her 
friends. 

"They  are  saying  I  did  it,"  she 
thought,  and  turned  icily  away. 

"If  Mario  does  not  hasten,  he  will 
never  see  the  Adelaide  alive  again," 
she  overheard  her  mother  confide  to 
Gemma;  then  seeing  Gina,  she  added, 
hastily :  ' '  She  was  always  a  poor  thing ; 
a  woman  who  has  not  strength  to  make 
one  baby!"  She  stopped  helpless  for 
a  descriptive  phrase. 

Mario  did  not  come.     Weeks  wore 

201 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

away,  months,  and  that  small  portion 
of  the  universe  which  concerned  itself 
with  Mario  and  Mario's  wife  began  to 
divide  tearful  prophecy  between  the 
two.  Adelaide  was  going — that  was 
plain  to  the  blindest;  had  Mario 
already  gone?  The  sea  alone  could 
answer,  and  its  secretive  waves,  break 
ing  hourly  on  the  sands,  laid  no  betray 
ing  token  there.  The  Buona  For  tuna 
sailed  never  into  port. 

"That  comes  of  shipping  in  a  Livor- 
nese  vessel,"  said  the  conservatives. 
"One's  own,  one  knows;  but  who  can 
answer  for  strangers,  men  or  boats." 

Curious  glances  invested  Gina.  The 
Bonselli's  daughter  was  exempt  from 
much  plain  questioning,  and  her  soli 
tary  nature  exempted  her  from  more ; 
but  the  way  Adelaide's  mother  looked 
at  Gina  when  they  met  spoke  for  it 
self. 

Adelaide  went  no  longer  to  the  molo, 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

but    the    Bonselli's     daughter    never 
missed  a  home-coming  of  the  boats. 

"She  looks  as  badly  as  the  Ade 
laide,  ' '  said  the  signora,  complainingly. 
"It  is  a  scandal  in  the  town.  What 
have  I  ever  done  that  a  daughter  of 
mine  should  behave  so?" 

"If  she  really  has  put  a  malediction 
on  her,"  remarked  Gemma,  pettishly, 
"I  wish  the  priest  would  speak  to  her. 
It  is  no  pleasure  to  have  her  about. ' ' 

Nor  was  it  in  truth.  It  is  hard  for 
the  shallow  pool  to  have  the  turbulent 
ocean  washing  into  it. 

But  if  folk  avoided  her,  it  was  all 
the  easier  for  Gina  to  slip  unnoted 
from  the  Albergo  early  into  the  still, 
empty  church.  There,  with  one  treas 
ure  after  another  from  her  slender 
store,  she  bribed  the  coldly  smiling 
Queen  of  Heaven. 

"Send  him  back  to  me!" 

"Send  him  back!" 
203 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Send  him  back — even  to  her!"  as 
the  endless  summer  of  boats  return 
ing  wore  on,  and  the  Good  Fortune 
beat  no  golden  track  across  the  seas. 
Tempest  after  tempest  wore  itself  out 
upon  those  waters,  unworn  after  all  the 
ages  and  rages  of  the  sky.  The  sea  is 
the  only  immortal. 

Rising  from  her  knees  one  morning, 
Gina  confronted  Adelaide's  mother. 

"Come."  she  said,  briefly;  "Ade 
laide  wants  you." 

Gina  followed  without  a  word.  Her 
feet  faltered  across  the  humble  thresh 
old  of  Mario's  home  and  into  the  bare, 
clean  little  room,  where  Adelaide  sat 
propped  against  cushions  in  the  one 
comfortable  chair,  her  eyes  the  only 
fire  in  the  ashes  of  her  wasted  face. 

"EccOy  Adelaide,"  said  the  mother, 
with  a  marvellous  change  of  expression, 
"here  is  the  signorina. "  And  abruptly 
she  left  them. 

204 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Accommodate  yourself,  signo- 
rina, "  said  Adelaide,  in  gasps,  indicat 
ing  feebly  the  remaining  chair.  Gina 
silently  drew  it  near  and  sank  into  it. 
The  two  looked  at  each  other,  a  hun 
dred  things  passing  between  them; 
then  their  common  anguish  broke  from 
the  lips  of  Adelaide. 

"He  is  dead — he  must  be  dead!" 

The  hands  of  the  Bonselli's  daughter 
worked  convulsively,  then  fluttered  up 
to  her  face.  Adelaide's  touch,  burning 
and  feeble,  drew  them  down  again. 

"Signorina  Bonselli,"  she  said,  "be 
fore  I  die,  forgive  me  and  take  the 
malediction  from  me,  or  I  shall  not 
rest  in  my  grave." 

Gina  sat  dumbly. 

"I  did  you  a  great  wrong,  but  I  did 
not  mean  it — believe  that,  signorina." 

And  still  the  Signorina  Bonselli  sat 
speechless. 

"A  great  wrong,  signorina,"  went 
205 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

on  Adelaide,  clasping  her  thin  hands ; 
"for  though  I  wished  Mario  well — oh, 
well! — I  was  proud  above  all  that  I, 
who  was  nobody,  had  taken  your  lover 
away.  I  thought  more  of  that  than 
of  Mario.  And  for  months  after  I  was 
proud,  for  I  could  see  in  your  eyes  that 
you  envied  me — oh,  signorina,  forgive 
me!  I  did  not  know — I  did  not  really 
know;  for  though  Mario  was  very 
good  and  gentle — proprio  un  angelo — 
he  never  loved  me,  signorina;  I  did 
not  know  it  at  first,  but  later  I  knew." 

She  turned  her  head,  and  Gina's 
eyes,  following  involuntarily,  took  in 
the  child  asleep  in  its  rude  cradle  at 
her  side.  When  she  looked  back  she 
was  struck  with  the  change  in  the 
mother's  face.  "Will  you  give  her  to 
me,  signorina?' '  she  said,  a  pale,  sweet 
smile  shining  in  her  eyes  and  lips. 
"Will  you  put  her  in  my  lap?" 

Tremblingly,      Gina     stooped     her 
206 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

strong  young  arms  and  lifted  Mario's 
little  daughter,  a  mere  shadow-baby, 
from  the  pillow.  She  laid  it  in  the 
mother's  lap,  and  Adelaide,  leaning 
back  against  the  cushions  with  a  look 
of  great  content,  devoured  its  features. 
She  caressed  one  tiny  claw  in  her  own 
thin  fingers,  while  Gina  sat  watching 
like  one  benumbed. 

"Ah,"  breathed  Adelaide,  gently, 
bending  a  great  look  of  love  upon  her 
child,  "that  teaches  one!  When  the 
little  one  came,  so  like  Mario — for  she 
is  very  like  Mario,  signorina, "  she 
added  earnestly — "then  all  I  had  ever 
felt  for  Mario  before  seemed  as  nothing. 
Night  and  day  I  hungered  for  him — 
night  and  day;  and  I  knew  what  it  is 
to  love,  and  that  he  had  never  really 
loved  me — not  like  that !  And  then  it 
was  I  began  to  see  it  in  your  eyes — 
the  hunger,  signorina — forgive  me!" 

She  held  them  with  her  own  now. 
207 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  wife,  softly, 
"it  is  all  there;  and  at  first  I  was  angry 
to  think  you  felt  it,  as  if  it  robbed  me, 
but  by  and  by  I  came  to  love  you  for 
it,  because  you  cared,  too;  nobody 
else  in  all  the  town  cared,  only  just  we 
two — and  I  had  my  baby.  Ah,  signo- 
rina,  that  is  why  you  must  forgive 
me — for  that  I  have  taken  from  you 
forever.  Even  if  Mario  came  back  and 
loved  you,  it  is  I  who  have  been  his 
wife,  and  the  bambina  is  mine ;  nothing 
can  take  that  away  or  make  it  differ 
ent."  She  dwelt  gaspingly  a  moment 
upon  that  triumphant  anguish,  even 
while  her  eyes  implored  the  stony 
dumbness  of  the  girl  before  her.  "I 
do  not  even  blame  you  for  putting 
the  malediction  on  me,"  she  said, 
piteously;  "but  now  that  Mario  is 
dead  and  I  am  dying,  take  it  from 
me,  signorina,  that  I  may  die  at 


peace!' 


208 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

The  Bonselli's  daughter  dropped  on 
her  knees  beside  the  sick  woman. 

"I  never  put  any  malediction  on 
you,  Adelaide — never!  But,  oh,"  she 
burst  into  tears  and  bowed  her  head 
in  her  hands,  "I  have  hated  you  for 
being  his!" 

"Povera  Gina!"  said  Adelaide, 
speaking  in  the  old  tone,  as  when  they 
were  girls  together;  but  she  was  too 
weak  to  say  more. 

Gina  controlled  her  sobs  quickly. 

"You  must  not  die,  Adelaide;  per 
haps  he  will  yet  come.  Only  this 
morning  I  vowed  all  my  gold  and  coral 
set  to  the  Virgin  if  she  would  send 
him — even  to  you."  The  last  was 
broken  with  a  great  sob. 

"Poor  Gina!"  said  Adelaide  again, 
but  she  shook  her  head.  "If  he  came,  I 
shall  not  be  here.  But  even  then,"  she 
added  quickly,  "he  would  remember 
us  always. ' '  She  drew  the  child  closer. 
209 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"Is  the  bambina  ill?"  asked  Gina, 
reading  that  motion,  and  startled. 

Adelaide  nodded.  "Better  so," 
she  hastened  to  say,  almost  jealously, 
as  Gina  bent  quickly  above  the  little 
face.  "I  could  not  leave  her  to  any. 
Even  Mario  would  not  love  her 
enough,  because  —  because — "  The 
first  tears  dropped  slowly  down  her 
cheeks. 

"Thank  you  for  coming,  signorina," 
she  said  in  a  different  tone;  "and  go 
now,  I  have  so  little  strength.  I  can 
die  in  peace,  now  that  I  know  it  is  not 
the  malediction." 

Gina  seized  the  thin,  hot  hands  in 
her  strong  one. 

"Adelaide,  I  will  vow  a  candle  to 
every  altar  of  the  Virgin — " 

Adelaide  smiled  faintly.  "Go  now, 
signorina;  some  one  might  see  you 
here.  Addio,  addio!" 

Her  eyes   followed   the  girl  to  the 

2IO 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

door  with  an  unenvious  look  of  mute 
resignation — the  look  of  those  who 
have  done  with  all — and  then  turned 
with  sweetness  upon  the  child  in  her 
lap. 

The  pale  mother  and  child  were 
scarce  paler  when,  six  days  later,  the 
village  followed  them  to  their  grave. 

Only  the  Bonselli's  elder  daughter 
came  never  near,  either  at  the  house 
or  the  cemetery,  and  on  the  whole  it 
was  held  she  did  well  to  keep  away; 
there  had  been  authentic  cases  where 
the  utterer  of  a  malediction  had  been 
stricken  at  the  victim's  grave.  One 
thing  was  certain — the  girl  looked 
more  like  a  corpse  every  month,  which 
was  also  easily  accounted  for:  the 
mother  of  Adelaide  had  put  a  maledic 
tion,  in  her  turn,  on  her  daughter's 
murderer. 

"I  wish  she  would  take  the  Vanni's 
nephew,"  grumbled  Signer  Bonselli, 

211 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"to  put  a  stop  to  tongues;  and  then 
look  at  the  monument  Vanni  is  build 
ing  in  the  cemetery — he  has  money  to 
burn." 

Gina,  however,  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  Vanni's  nephew. 
Gemma  was  to  marry  the  young  shop 
keeper — a  great  affair;  but  Gina  took 
no  interest  in  anything — only  she  never 
missed  a  home-coming  of  the  boats. 

One  day  she  asked  her  mother  for 
ten  francs. 

It  is  not  a  sum  to  be  lightly  handled, 
but  the  signora,  who  hoped  Gina  had 
some  rational  girl's  desire  in  her  head, 
after  a  little  cautious  delay,  gave  it  to 
her. 

"The  truth  is,  you  do  need  new 
ribbons  for  that  dress  of  yours,  Gina," 
she  said,  as  a  leader. 

"Yes,"  assented  her  daughter  som 
brely,  and  quietly  slipped  out  with  the 
market-basket  (the  Bonselli  were  not 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

above  doing  their  marketing),  and 
went  to  a  shop  where  ribbons  were  sold, 
surely,  but  of  a  singular  kind.  The 
ribbon  was  wide  and  long  and  black, 
attached  to  a  wreath  of  silver  leaves. 
"I  order  it  for  a  friend,"  she  explained 
to  the  merchant,  who  asked,  "What 
name  ?"  "  No  name. ' '  And  the  mer 
chant  thought  nothing,  for  All-Souls' 
was  at  hand. 

Every  one  knows  the  proper  time  to 
carry  offerings  for  the  dead,  and  no 
one  who  can  avoid  it  will  willingly 
bring  his  before  his  neighbours. 
Promptly  in  the  afternoon  the  cake 
and  chestnut  vendor  takes  up  his  sta 
tion  at  the  gates  of  the  Campo  Santo, 
and  for  the  next  four  hours  the  Pineta 
is  a  walking  procession  of  portraits, 
largely  post-mortem,  and  of  wreaths, 
upborne  by  mourners,  sorrowing,  cheer 
ful,  or  resigned. 

Thus  Gina,  counting  with  safety  on 
213 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

the  hour  of  dawn,  and  young  and  fleet 
of  foot,  had  no  reason  to  fear  detection 
as  she  hastened  in  the  first  grey  light 
through  the  pines  and  beyond  to  the 
open  gates  of  the  cemetery.  Just 
within,  the  Vanni  monument  reared 
its  huge  mass,  as  if  saying,  "See, 
under  me  you  might  one  day  repose, 
if  you  would!"  But  Gina  sped  by 
softly  to  the  farther  and  the  poorer 
part  of  the  enclosure. 

The  simple  mound  beneath  which 
Mario's  wife  and  child  lay  bore  as  yet 
no  stone — how  should  the  aged  mother 
compass  one? — and  was  distinguished 
by  no  railing :  who  knew  where  he  who 
might  have  honoured  it  was  lying? 
Beside  it,  Gina  threw  herself  in  a  very 
passion  of  despair.  The  dead  Adelaide 
seemed  the  nearest  thing  to  her  in  all 
the  universe,  and  her  she  envied,  even 
in  the  grave,  still  triumphant  with  his 
child  in  her  dead  arms.  She  envied 
214 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

her,  and  she  besought  her,  instinc 
tively,  as  though  the  dead  Adelaide 
were  become  more  powerful  than  the 
Virgin. 

"Send  him  back  to  me — oh,  send 
him  back  to  me!  You  had  him — let 
me  have  him  now!"  she  cried,  dumbly, 
to  the  dumb  sod.  Taking  the  wreath 
from  the  box,  she  carefully  spread  it 
above  the  mound,  pulling  out  the 
leaves  and  laying  the  wide  ribbons  to 
the  best  advantage  with  an  instinct 
that  was  racial  rather  than  personal. 

Rising  wearily  from  this  task,  she 
faced  Adelaide's  mother,  a  handful  of 
home-made  tissue-paper  flowers  in  her 
hand. 

"You  killed  her;  why  are  you  here?" 
said  the  old  woman.  The  paper  flow 
ers  shook  in  her  shaking  hand.  "You 
are  trying  to  make  your  peace  with 
her — hypocrite !  Who  put  that  there?" 

The  last  words  were  uttered  in 
215 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

amazement,  one  lean  finger  pointing 
quiveringly  to  the  splendid  wreath. 

"I  did."  It  never  occurred  to  the 
girl,  indifferent  to  all  things  now,  to 
conceal  the  truth. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  mother,  wa 
vering  between  anger  and  extorted 
admiration  of  the  wreath,  to  which  her 
eyes  seemed  glued,  "you  want  to  make 
things  smooth.  You  put  the  maledic 
tion  on  her,  and  now  you  are  fright 
ened." 

"I  am  not."  Gina  sprang  to  her 
feet.  "The  Adelaide  knows — " 

' '  She  was  a  soft-hearted  fool,  who  be 
lieved  what  she  was  told  by  any  one, ' ' 
replied  the  mother,  harshly,  with  un 
dertones  of  anguish.  "Didn't  I  see 
her  fade  away  under  it?  Was  she 
ever  sick  till  then?  Take  away  your 
wreath — "  (But  Gina  noted  the  hesi 
tation  in  her  eyes.)  "Now  that  she  is 
dead,  you  think  he  will  come  back; 
216 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

but  he  is  dead,   too.     He  will  never 
come  back." 

"How  do  you  know — what  do  you 
know?"  She  sprang  across  the  grave 
and  seized  the  old  woman  by  the  arm. 

"Nevermind;  he  is  dead,  I  tell  you. 
You  will  never  see  him  again.  Mother 
of  God!" 

"Mother!"  said  Mario,  gently,  as 
Gina,  whiter  than  Adelaide  ever  had 
been,  dropped  silently  beside  the  grave ; 
"it  is  only  I." 

"All  the  saints!  all  the  saints!" 
murmured  the  old  woman  over  and 
over,  crossing  herself  again  and  again, 
while  Mario,  heeding  neither  her  nor 
the  tense  figure  on  its  knees  across  the 
grave,  with  eyes  staring  from  its  white 
face,  dropped  quietly  on  his  own  knees 
and  kissed  the  sod  above  his  wife's 
head  and  feet.  His  lips  moved  silently. 
Then  he  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
her  mother. 

217 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"If  she  had  lived,"  he  said,  "I 
would  have  tried  to  make  her  happy. 
Let  me  take  you  home  now,  mother." 

"Not  till  I  have  cursed  her!"  cried 
the  old  woman,  trembling  with  grief 
and  rage,  and  pointing  a  shaking  hand 
at  Gina.  "She  put  the  malediction 
on  my  Adelaide,  who  lies  here  with 
your  child;  I  will  put  the  malediction 
on  her.  She  has  no  right  to  be  happy 
with  my  Adelaide  dead." 

"Mother!"  said  Mario,  gently. 

"  It  is  not  true,  Mario ;  I  put  no  male 
diction  on  her — the  Adelaide  knew — " 
The  white  lips  spoke  imploringly. 

"I  know,  I  know."  He  took  the 
old  woman's  hand.  "See,"  he  said, 
soothingly,  "Adelaide  is  at  peace. 
The  wrong  was  all  mine ;  you  do  not 
wish  me  ill,  mother?" 

"I  wish  you  no  harm,"  persisted 
the  old  woman,  tremulously.  "You 
were  her  husband,  and  good  to  her, 
218 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

and  she  wished  you  well;  but  if  you 
marry  that  one,  I  will  put  the  maledic 
tion  on  her.  She  shall  lie  here  as  my 
Adelaide  does." 

Mario  started  as  if  the  trembling 
hand  struck  him.  Still  he  avoided 
looking  at  the  girl  opposite. 

"Mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  do 
not  know  what  you  are  saying!  It  is 
the  Signorina  Bonselli." 

"I  put  the  malediction  on  her — I 
put  it  on  her!"  reiterated  the  old 
woman,  raising  one  withered  hand. 

At  that  gesture  Mario  turned,  the 
eyes  of  the  two  met  across  Adelaide's 
grave,  and  involuntarily  Mario  held 
out  his  arms.  The  next  moment  Gina 
was  in  them. 

"Have  no  fear,  have  no  fear!"  he 
murmured,  brokenly,  while  he  drew  her 
close,  as  if  he  would  protect  her  with 
his  body  from  the  threatened  danger. 

"I  have  no  fear,"  she  answered, 
219 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

looking  into  his  eyes.  "Let  her  put 
the  malediction  on  me — anima  mia, 
dolce  amore  mio — "  The  rest  was  one 
dumb  murmur  of  kisses  rained  upon 
his  eyelids,  his  cheeks,  his  hands,  his 
clothing.  It  was  Mario  who  put  her 
gently  —  oh,  gently !  —  away  at  last, 
with  a  mute  gesture  towards  the  figure 
at  their  feet. 

The  old  woman  was  lifting  the 
wreath  with  trembling  hands;  one 
could  see  in  her  eyes  how  they  grew 
to  it  covetously.  "Take  it,"  she  said, 
bitterly.  "She  will  have  the  shabbi 
est  grave  in  the  cemetery;  let  it  be  so, 
when  her  husband  forgets  her!" 

"No,  oh,  no!"  Gina  laid  a  kind 
young  hand  on  the  aged  and  trembling 
one.  "Do  not  take  it  away.  Put  the 
malediction  on  me  just  the  same,  but 
let  the  wreath  stay,  I  beg  you." 

The  old  woman  fumbled  blindly 
among  the  flowers. 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

"It — it  is  a  good  wreath,"  she  mut 
tered,  "and  the  Adelaide  would  have 
liked  it."  The  grey  head  sank  upon 
the  metal  garland,  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"Mother,"  said  Mario,  tenderly, 
"she  shall  have  another;  you  shall 
help  me  choose  it  to-day — and  a  little 
one  for  the  child.  All  the  village  shall 
see  that  we  do  not  forget."  He  lifted 
her  gently,  and  looked  at  Gina,  but 
without  touching  her  hand  even. 

"Until  we  meet  again,"  he  said, 
gravely. 

"Until  we  meet  again,"  Gina  mur 
mured,  responsively ;  and  as  the  figures 
of  Mario  and  the  tottering  old  mother 
passed  slowly  from  sight, -she  fell  once 
more  on  her  knees  beside  the  little 
mound. 

So  common  a  marvel  it  is  for  the  sea 
to  give  up  its  dead  that  the  return  of 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Mario  was  not  more  than  a  three 
days'  wonder.  The  marriage  of  the 
Bonselli's  daughter  was  much  more. 

"It  is  incredible  that  she  will  per 
sist  in  marrying  him,"  exclaimed  the 
poor  Signora  Bonselli.  The  Signer 
Bonselli  shrugged  his  shoulders  silently. 

"Basso,  brutto,  povero,  a  widower, 
and  with  a  malediction  on  one!"  said 
Gemma,  shivering  and  crossing  herself. 
"She  must  be  a pazza" 

It  was  not  to  be,  however,  until 
Mario  had  mourned  his  wife  the  due 
time,  his  honest  face  wearing  a  gravity 
which  well  became  it,  the  signet  of 
death  escaped  and  death  suffered. 

"No  one  can  say  that  he  has  not 
shown  the  Adelaide  every  respect," 
said  all.  "Her  grave  was  the  richest 
in  the  Campo  Santo  on  All-Souls' 
Day — three  wreaths,  and  one  knows 
what  they  cost.  If  Mario  had  not  a 
good  heart,  he  would  have  thought 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

before  putting  all  those  francs  into 
it.  And  masses  said  as  if  she  were  a 
signora. ' '  It  warmed  the  common  heart 
to  the  widower,  and  even  Gina  became 
an  object  of  relenting,  if  not  compas 
sion,  when  it  was  whispered  that  she, 
too,  was  under  a  malediction,  and  yet 
"wished  Mario  so  well"  that  she  would 
still  wed  him.  The  world  loves  a 
lover,  but  the  Italian  feels  personally 
indebted  to  him. 

The  marriage  was  to  be  nothing 
splendid  like  Gemma's;  Gina  vetoed 
the  parents'  proposal  of  a  double  wed 
ding,  and  the  unfitness  was  so  obvious 
no  one  could  urge  it.  Gemma  made 
a  rich  match.  The  very  wardrobes  of 
the  two  sisters  told  the  tale,  and  cost 
the  soft-hearted  Signora  Bonselli 
many  secret  tears.  The  Bonselli  were 
just  people,  but  what  use  would  silk 
gowns  be  to  a  fisherman's  wife?  Gina 
was  married  in  the  usual  black  stuff, 
223 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

and  her  mother  consoled  herself  by 
seeing  to  it  that  the  wedding  confetti, 
at  least,  were  all  they  should  be. 
Nothing  could  make  the  breakfast  gay. 
All  the  customary  poesie  seemed  out  of 
place  when  one  was  marrying  a 
widower,  and  poor,  and  with  a  male 
diction  of  unknown  potency  hanging 
over  one.  Gina  was  scrutinised  with 
a  curiosity  many  a  fairer  bride  escapes ; 
to  many  of  the  guests  she  was  already 
as  good  as  dead.  Nor  did  it  fail  to  be 
remarked  that  Bonselli  himself  upset  a 
flask  of  oil,  and  that  the  bread  was 
unwittingly  left  upside  down  on  the 
plate,  though  the  Signora  Bonselli 
hastily  turned  it  over,  and  everybody 
pretended  not  to  see.  Certainly  it  was 
not  a  gay  wedding. 

It  softened  even  Gemma's  heart  to 

her  sister,  and  she  followed  her  upstairs, 

when   she  was  about  to  leave,  with  a 

mingled  compassion  and  disapproval. 

224 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Gina's  big  feathered  hat  hung  on  the 
wall,  and  Gemma  stood  and  watched 
her  sister  curiously  while  she  tied  a 
black  lace  scarf  about  her  head  and 
knotted  it  loosely  beneath  her  chin. 
Gemma  forgave  her  all  her  sins  at  that 
moment.  And  at  that  moment  Gina 
smiled  at  her,  and  walked  away  down 
the  stairs.  Mario  was  waiting  at  the 
foot,  and  the  whole  family  stood  to 
watch  them  depart  by  the  little  garden 
path  leading  to  the  new  home. 

"There  will  be  a  baby  every  year," 
sighed  the  signora,  forebodingly. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
divided  between  a  curious  comprehen 
sion  and  a  keen  realisation  that  the 
Vanni  monument  was  lost  forever  to 
the  family. 

"JSasso,    bruttot  povero"     repeated 
Gemma  to    herself,    disdainfully,    yet 
with  awe,  for,  after  all,  it  was  her  sister 
who  was  perhaps  as  good  as  dead. 
225 


The  Bonselli's  Daughter 

Low  and  plain  and  poor  was  also 
the  little  home  to  which  Mario  led  his 
bride,  though  not  quite  so  barren  as 
the  Adelaide's  had  been;  the  Bonselli 
pride  had  softened  all  that  Mario's 
would  allow,  but  it  was  still  a  very 
humble  place  to  bring  the  Bonselli's 
daughter  to.  The  consciousness  of  this 
smote  Mario  so  vividly  that  he  turned, 
with  the  door  already  open,  and  looked 
at  the  girl  with  a  dreadful  doubt. 
The  look  he  met  banished  every 
doubt  forever,  and  it  was  with  the 
gesture  of  a  prince  entering  his  king 
dom  that  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms 
across  the  threshold  and  closed  the 
door. 


226 


Oreste's  Patron 


Oreste's  Patron 

The  Signore  Americano,  musing 
over  his  morning  coffee  on  the  villa 
terrace,  gazed  intently  into  the  distance 
where  Florence  lay  invisible  behind 
the  hills. 

" Buon  giorno,  signore!"  called 
Oreste,  reining  in  Elisabetta  and  lifting 
his  cap  with  a  smile. 

"  Buon'  giorno!"  returned  the  si 
gnore,  starting.  "Ah,  you  are  going 
to  the  city,  and  I  wanted  to  go  my 
self." 

Oreste  looked  troubled. 

"Signore,  how  much  I  am  sorry! 
It  displeases  me,  but  I  am  already 
promised  to  my  patron.  When  one  is 
poor  one  must  think  of  the  francs  for 
the  family,"  he  added,  apologetically. 
229 


Oreste's  Patron 

The  signore,  who  knew  no  such 
necessity,  frowned. 

"This  is  the  fifth  time  this  Carni- 
vale — and  you  just  married.  If  I  had 
a  sposina — " 

"The  signore's  sposina  would  lack 
for  nothing,"  smiled  Oreste.  "We 
others — we  must  do  as  we  can.  As 
for  Gioja,  she  goes  to  pass  the  day 
with  her  nonna  at  Vincigliata.  I  will 
bring  the  signore's  mail  as  usual." 

The  signore  waved  his  hand  impa 
tiently  and  knocked  the  ashes  from  his 
cigarette;  then  as  the  shabby  cab, 
with  Elisabetta  pulling  heroically  back 
against  the  steepness,  wound  from 
sight,  his  glance  softened.  It  was  a 
piece  of  fortune  surely  for  a  Vignola 
cabman  to  have  a  city  patron.  For 
tunes  were  not  to  be  made  up  here, 
where  nobody  but  the  forestieri,  who 
came  from  time  to  time  to  make  a 
'V^llcgiat^lra  in  one  or  another  of  the 
230 


Oreste's  Patron 

villas,  would  think  of  wasting  francs 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  getting  some 
where.  The  inhabitants  stayed  where 
they  found  themselves  placed  by  Provi 
dence.  To  all  intents  Vignola  might 
be  a  hundred  miles  from  Florence, 
instead  of  a  bare  six.  Besides,  a 
stranger  signore  passes  with  the  season, 
but  a  city  patron  remains.  Nuisance 
as  it  was  to  have  his  own  plans  con 
flicted  with,  the  signore  forgave  Oreste. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  this  melting 
mood  congealed  again,  as  a  slender 
figure  stole  quietly  down  the  Way. 

It  was  Gioja,  walking  with  her  usual 
listless  grace.  Her  small  head,  its 
crisply  waved  Tuscan  hair  bound  with 
a  kerchief  of  dull  blue,  was  carried  far 
back,  as  no  kerchiefed  head  has  a  right 
to  be,  and  her  eyes,  blue  as  the  ker 
chief,  but  not  dull,  looked  straight 
ahead,  dilated  and  musing.  She  did 
not  see  the  signore — a  thing  that 
231 


Oreste's  Patron 

could  have  befallen  no  other  girl  in  the 
village,  unless  it  were  blind  Chiara,  and 
the  signore  watched  her  go  with  a 
frown.  For  this  was  not  the  direction 
of  Vincigliata.  And  why  was  she 
starting  so  early,  unless  to  defeat  the 
glances  with  which  all  these  closed 
doors  would  soon  be  alive? 

Yet  he  continued  to  watch  her. 
There  were  other  girls  in  the  village 
just  as  pretty.  Many  a  strain  of  noble 
blood  had  gone  to  the  making  of  these 
Vignolese  peasants.  This  was  not  the 
first  girl  the  signore  had  seen  who 
looked  as  if — change  her  gown  and  tie 
a  bonnet  over  her  hair — she  might  loll 
in  her  carriage  of  an  afternoon  at  the 
Cascine  with  the  best  of  the  fine  ladies 
in  the  city  below.  But  there  was  no 
other  whom  the  signore  ever  leaned 
over  the  wall  to  look  after.  And  as 
he  leaned  his  frown  deepened ;  he  was 
sorry  for  Oreste,  but — marry  a  girl  like 
232 


Oreste's  Patron 

that  and  leave  her  alone  in  Italy! 
Anybody  might  foresee  the  end.  And 
he  frowned  again,  not  at  Gioja  this 
time,  who  had  disappeared  from  view, 
but  at  a  mental  image  wearing,  it  is 
true,  an  air  dangerously  like  that  of 
Oreste's  sposa. 

Yes,  indeed,  anybody  might  foretell 
the  end.  That  was  what  the  whole 
community,  already  buzzing  with  the 
scandal,  said.  And  it  was  exactly 
what  the  padre  said,  when,  five  min 
utes  later,  he  came  up  the  path  and 
sank  upon  the  marble  seat,  mopping 
his  brow  beneath  the  beaver  hat. 

"I  have  been  to  Oreste's,"  he  said, 
apologetically,  "and  thought  I  would 
look  in  upon  the  signore  in  passing. 
There  was  nobody  there." 

The  signore,  engaged  in  pouring  red 

wine  for  his  guest,  made  no  response, 

and  the  priest  stole  a  troubled  glance  at 

him  as  he  took  the  glass  from  his  hand. 

233 


Oreste's  Patron 

"Perhaps,  signore,  you  may  have 
seen  them  pass,  and  can  tell  me  if  that 
child  went  with  her  husband?" 

"No,"  said  the  signore,  after  a  min 
ute's  deliberation,  "I  could  not." 

His  guest  sighed  as  he  sipped  the 
wine.  He  had  grown  grey  in  the  ser 
vice  of  the  village.  He  had  known 
Gioja  from  her  babyhood.  His  was 
the  hand  which  had  held  and  oiled  and 
dipped  her  at  the  font,  and  had  led 
her  from  then  until  her  present  estate ; 
and  he,  if  any  one,  had  a  right  to  bor 
row  trouble,  seeing  that  all  troubles 
were  brought  to  him  in  the  end.  His 
fine,  thin  lips  shut  above  the  wine 
glass  in  the  sensitive  line  which  marks 
the  better  of  Rome's  two  types.  His 
soul  was  straight  and  simple.  The  one 
vanity  it  owned  was  to  be  on  terms  of 
companionship  with  the  occupant  of 
the  big  villa.  The  half-hour  on  its 
terrace  or  in  its  salotto  formed  his 
234 


Oreste's  Patron 

social  dissipation,  and  dearly  did  he 
prize  the  importance  it  gave  him  in 
the  eyes  of  his  flock.  Nay,  it  gave 
importance  to  the  whole  community. 

"Not  every  village  has  a  priest  like 
ours,"  said  the  gossips  complacently, 
"that  a  so  educated  stranger  signore 
would  make  so  much  of." 

Moreover,  if  his  people  were  poor, 
God  alone  knows  how  poor  their  priest 
was,  and  the  signore  possessed  a  fine 
taste  in  wines — true  Chianti,  a  very 
different  thing  from  vino  rosso  at  eighty 
centesimi  the  flask — while  his  lavish- 
ness  was  that  of  his  country. 

As  for  the  signore,  he  would  pour 
the  oil  from  a  fresh  flask  any  time  to 
unseal  the  lips  pressed  together,  as 
now,  over  the  case  of  Oreste's  sposa. 

"The  truth  is,"   sighed  the  priest, 

"the  end  is  too  easy  to  foresee.     The 

child   is  not   like  others,  and  there  is 

nothing  worse  than  that.     That's  what 

235 


Oreste's  Patron 

Luigi's  sposa  said  yesterday  when  I 
rebuked  her  for  thinking  evil,  and 
recalled  to  her  how  Gioja  helped  nurse 
her  three  through  the  tifo  only  last 
spring.  'Oh,  I'm  not  saying  she 
hasn't  a  heart,'  said  Luigi's  sposa, 
'but  you  can't  deny  that  all  is  not 
right  when  a  girl  is  different  from  all 
the  rest ;  it  is  better  to  have  less  heart 
and  be  more  like  one's  neighbours.' 
And  Luigi's  wife  had  reason.  Noth 
ing  is  worse  than  to  be  different  Tiorn 
all  the  folk  about  you.  When  I  had 
her  safely  married  I  thought  indeed 
there  would  be  an  end  of  trouble. 
Heaven  grant  it  do  not  prove  a  begin 
ning." 

''Does  she  not  love  her  husband?" 

"Who  can  tell?"  sighed  the  priest, 

impatiently.     "Oreste  is  not  one  to  set 

the  Arno  afire,  but  he  is  a  good  lad. 

But  about  her  he  is  a  mule — a  very 

mule.     Would    you    believe,    signore, 

236 


Oreste's  Patron 

when  I  ventured  a  word — I,  whose 
duty  it  is — he  flared  up  like  a  befana 
torch,  he  whose  manner  to  me  ordi 
narily  is  a  lesson  to  the  community." 

The  signore  smiled,  and  reflected 
upon  the  strength  of  man. 

"One  would  say  I  had  spoken  ill  of 
the  saints, "  continued  the  exasperated 
priest.  "And  the  thing  is  becoming 
insufferable — such  a  tale  of  scandal  as 
some  one  whispers  to  me  every  day! 
One  would  think  she  has  neither  eyes 
nor  ears,  and  cares  not  whether  she  has 
friends  or  foes  for  neighbours." 

There  is,  in  truth,  no  such  broad 
and  flowery  path  to  unpopularity  as 
this  which  Gioja  undeviatingly  pursued. 
Nobody  who  elects  to  be  unlike  his 
neighbours  gets  social  good  of  it.  Had 
not  the  signore  himself  seen? 

Bad  enough  it  was  to  have  her  sit 
ting  wide-eyed  and  absolutely  indiffer 
ent  at  her  machine — and  so  pretty  that 
237 


Oreste's  Patron 

one  could  see  the  lads  looking  at 
her  when  they  pretended  not  to — or 
mooning  over  her  straw  work  with 
never  a  word  of  gossip  or  a  little  story 
about  a  friend,  more  than  if  they  were 
all  stones ;  but  what  did  these  absences 
all  by  herself  mean,  which  looked  the 
worse  now  that  she  was  a  decent  man's 
wife?  It  was  an  absolute  scandal — 
which  is  only  another  name  for  a  god 
send  sometimes  —  to  a  sober  com 
munity. 

Oreste  might  pretend  to  shut  his 
eyes — he  had  always  been  a  fool  about 
her;  but  it  could  not  be  asked  that  all 
the  village  should  do  the  same,  espe 
cially  those  girls  who  would  have  made 
decent  wives  if  any  one  had  given  them 
the  chance,  and  those  lads  who  would 
have  known  how  to  keep  a  wife  in 
order  if  they  had  taken  one.  . 

The  priest,  thinking  of  these  things, 
sighed.  He,  too,  might  affect  blind- 
238 


Oreste's  Patron 

ness,  but  he  would  need  to  be  stone 
deaf  as  well  to  escape  hearing  what 
every  tongue  in  the  village  felt  it  a 
duty  and  a  privilege  to  confide  to  him 
daily. 

"It  must  be  admitted  that  the 
Signorina  Americana  has  something  to 
answer  for,"  the  priest  wound  up,  as 
he  invariably  did,  and  always  with  an 
indulgent  accent  which  forgave  while 
it  accused. 

The  Signorina  Americana!  How 
many  times  was  she  not  levelled  at  the 
ears  of  the  Signore  Americano,  who 
had  inherited  her  tradition  with  the 
villa  of  which  he  was  the  next  lessee. 
If  the  contadini  were  to  be  believed, 
there  was  little  for  which  she  might  not 
be  held  accountable.  They  spoke  of 
her  smilingly,  Oreste  tenderly,  the 
priest  indulgently  (the  signorina  also 
had  possessed  a  generous  taste  in 
wines),  and  Gioja  not  at  all.  Yet  ap- 
239 


Oreste's  Patron 

parently   it  was  precisely    Gioja   who 
might  have  had  most  to  say. 

"Ah,  yes;  if  I  could  have  foreseen 
when  I  brought  that  child  to  her! 
But  what  harm  could  come  to  her  from 
earning  a  few  francs  as  the  signorina's 
maid?  I  chose  her  for  the  very  reason 
that  she  had  more  gentleness  and  was 
more  educated  than  the  others.  The 
signorina,  your  countrywoman,  was 
herself  very  educated  and  full  of  gen- 
tilezza.  But  she  was  too  good  to 
Gioja,  and  then  she  could  never  be 
made  to  see.  She  had  a  way  with 
her.  When  I  began  to  remonstrate 
with  her  she  would  fill  up  my  glass  and 
ask  about  my  poor,  and  before  I  knew 
it — altro!  she  was  very  generous,  your 
countrywoman.  But  if  there  are  many 
like  her  in  your  country,  it  must  be  a 
terrible  place;  a  man  would  not  pos 
sess  his  own  soul." 

The  signore  laughed. 
240 


Oreste's  Patron 

"She  would  sit  here  —  precisely 
where  I  sit  now — and  smile  a  little 
smile  she  had,  and  twist  this  rose-vine 
about  her  fingers,  and  just  so  she 
twisted  us  all.  Ah,"  he  concluded, 
lifting  his  glass,  "she  was  truly  ter 
rible,  that  signorina!  but  simpatica, 
altro!  never  have  I  seen  so  simpatica 
a  signorina." 

Simpatica!  When  you  are  that, 
there  is  nothing  else  you  can  be;  and 
when  you  are  not  that,  nothing  that 
you  can  be  is  of  any  use.  When 
everybody,  down  to  the  newsboys  and 
cab-openers,  loves  you  and  doesn't 
know  why,  you  are  simpatica;  when 
people  would  rather  do  things  for  you 
than  not,  and  don't  care  about  the 
payment,  then  you  may  be  sure  you 
are  simpatica;  when  the  expression  of 
their  eyes  and  the  tones  of  their  voice 
change  insensibly  when  they  look  at 
and  speak  to  you,  there  is  no  room  to 
241 


Oreste's  Patron 

doubt  that  you  are  simpatica.  You 
may  not  be  rich,  nor  beautiful,  nor 
"educated"  (such  a  very  different 
thing  from  book-fed),  but  you  do  not 
need  to  be.  Simpatica  is  the  compre 
hending  sky  of  praise  in  which  separate 
stars  of  admiration  are  swallowed  up. 
While  the  signore  figured  rapidly  the 
mischief  possible  of  accomplishment  by 
a  dangerous  signorina  possessing  this 
attribute,  the  priest  drank  another 
glass  of  wine  and  returned  to  the 
trouble  of  his  soul. 

"I  thought,  indeed,  with  a  wife's 
work  to  do,  she  would  settle  down  like 
others,  but  Oreste  encourages  her  wil- 
fulness." 

"Why  do  you  not  speak  to  Gioja 
herself?" 

"Heaven    forbid!"    exclaimed    the 

priest,  crossing  himself.     "I  have  tried 

that  once.     She  has  a  terrible  nature, 

that  child !    I  have  never  told  any  one, 

242 


Oreste's  Patron 

but  see  if  I  have  not  reason  to  say 
so,  signore."  He  sipped  his  wine 
agitatedly,  and  then  began  with  feel 
ing: 

"It  was  the  signorina  to  begin  with; 
she  saw  that  the  child  was  pretty,  and 
she  put  ideas  in  her  head.  And  in 
fact,  though  heaven  forbid  I  should 
compare  Gioja,  who  is  only  a  little 
contadina,  with  a  real  signorina,  yet 
she  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  have 
a  little  something  about  her  which 
recalls  the  signorina  herself — a  way  of 
walking  and  carrying  her  head.  And 
the  signorina  had  not  an  idea  of  keep 
ing  her  in  her  place.  She  was  always 
giving  her  gowns  and  ribbons  and 
trinkets  and  vanities  of  all  kinds — that 
was  her  way,  always  giving.  The  end 
of  it  was  that  one  day  I  surprised  that 
child  with  a  hat  of  the  signorina's  on 
her  unhappy  head — yes,  actually,  sig 
nore,  if  you  will  credit  me,  a  hat,  a 
243 


Oreste's  Patron 

cappello  di  signora  on  her  head  !"  He 
spread  his  hands  in  deprecating  despair. 

The  signore  looked  blankly. 

"Oh,  signore,  you  are  like  your 
countrywoman;  it  is  impossible  to 
make  you  understand !  But  it  must  be 
a  country — yours!  For  a  girl  like 
Gioja  to  put  a  hat  on  is  to  declare  her 
self  without  shame  at  once.  Honest 
girls  of  her  class  let  such  roba  di  signore 
alone — yes,  and  rightly,  for  God  has 
put  people  in  their  places.  A  girl  who 
showed  herself  inasignora's  hat  would 
find  it  impossible  to  live  in  Vignola; 
she  would  be  hooted  out  of  the  village. 
And  as  for  the  wife  of  a  lad  like  Oreste 
pretending  to  that,  half  a  dozen  lovers 
would  not  be, a  worse  scandal.  Those, 
at  least,  the  others  could  understand, 
but  a  cappello  di  signora — "  He 
stopped  to  take  several  agitated  sips, 
shaking  his  head  all  the  time.  "I  do 
not  say  she  would  have  been  so  mad 
244 


Oreste's  Patron 

as  to  cross  the  threshold  in  it — the  sig- 
norina  had  given  it  to  her  to  sell  for 
the  feathers  upon  it — but  who  could 
tell  what  such  a  girl  might  do?  I 
scolded  her  well  for  her  wicked  vanity 
and  such  ideas  above  her  place.  Santa 
Maria!  lovers  and  such  are  enough 
without  a  scandal  like  that  among  my 
people.  Well,  what  was  the  end? 
Signore,  she  rushed  off  and  hung  that 
hat  with  at  least  twenty  francs'  worth 
of  good  feathers  on  it  in  the  Madon 
na's  chapel,  beside  'Masso's  crutch  and 
the  little  hearts  and  legs  and  other 
offerings  to  Our  Lady!  There  it 
hung,  where  all  the  world  would  see  it 
and  every  tongue  in  the  place  be  set 
wagging,  if  I  had  not  providentially 
gone  in  and  found  it  before  mass  next 
day.  And  even  then  what  could  I  do? 
It  was  the  Madonna's,  and  I  dared 
not  remove  it.  But  heaven  sends 
accidents,  and  as  it  chanced,  providen- 
245 


Oreste's  Patron 

tially,  signore,  my  candle  brushed  the 
feathers  in  passing,  and  presto,  I 
dropped  it  quickly  into  a  bucket  of 
water.  It  was  not  fit  for  Our  Lady 
after  that,  so  I  took  it  away,  and  I 
myself  made  it  up  to  her  in  candles, 
that  no  one  might  feel  hurt.  And 
after  all,  nobody  was  the  richer  for 
all  those  francs'  worth  of  feathers; 
they  were  singed  more  than  I  hoped, 
and  did  not  bring  me  in  Florence  the 
price  of  the  candles.  Oh,  she  has  a 
terrible  nature — that  Gioja!  No,  no, 
grazie — if  I  must  speak  to  Oreste,  I 
must;  but  to  her! —  candles  cost, 
Signore  Americano,  and  I  am  a  poor 
man." 

Still  shaking  his  head,  he  rose  to 
depart. 

The  signore,    left  alone,  paced  the 

terrace  a  few  times,  smiling  to  himself; 

then  he  sat  down  again — this  time  in 

the  priest's  place — and  fell  to  musing, 

246 


Oreste's  Patron 

and  as  he  mused  his  fingers  stole  almost 
furtively  to  the  long  rose-tendrils,  and 
twisted  them  gently,  while  the  smile 
died  abruptly  on  his  lips. 

Presently  he  rang,  and  Giuseppina 
came  out. 

"You  may  take  away  these  things," 
said  the  signore,  "and  bring  me  pen 
and  paper.  Oh,  and  by  the  way, 
Giuseppina,  in  future  put  my  seat  here 
— the  valley  sees  itself  better. ' ' 

Coming  from  the  post  that  evening 
the  signore  was  aware  of  a  slender 
shape  slipping  along  through  the  deep 
ening  shadows  ahead.  Quickening  his 
steps,  he  overtook  it  easily. 

" Buona  sera.     So  it  is  you,  Gioja?" 

"Si,  signore!"  The  voice  was  both 
startled  and  appealing. 

But  the  signore  strode  along,  looking 
keenly  at  the  downcast  face. 

"Oreste  is  not  with  you?' 

"No,  signore;  he  went  to  the  city." 
247 


Oreste's  Patron 

"And  you  have  doubtless  been  vis 
iting  your  grandmother?" 

"Yes,  signore."  The  voice  was 
almost  inaudible. 

The  signore  turned  on  his  heel  with 
a  curt  "JSuona  sera!'"  and  was  still 
muttering  things  under  his  breath 
when,  fifteen  minutes  later,  he  beheld 
from  the  terrace  Oreste  and  Elisabetta 
toiling  wearily  up  the  hill. 

"How  well  she  times  it!"  he 
thought,  contemptuously,  as  the  bell 
of  the  big  gate  sounded,  and  he  heard 
Giuseppina's  challenge,  "Who  is  it?" 

" Amid,  friends,"  answered  Oreste's 
voice,  and  Oreste  swiftly  followed  with 
his  frank  smile  and  a  square  envelope 
of  dull  blue,  which  the  signore's  hand 
involuntarily  stretched  to  grasp. 

"Ecco,  signore,  the  only  one!"  said 

Oreste,    with    that    polite    gesture    of 

regret  with  which  he  daily  accompanied 

this  small  comedy.  '  The  signore  hav- 

248 


Oreste's  Patron 

ing  possessed  himself  of  the  letter 
avidly,  put  it  into  his  pocket  with 
ostentatious  carelessness,  and  coolly 
lighted  a  cigarette.  Oreste  smiled 
comprehendingly  but  respectfully. 

"You  have  had  a  long  day  of  it?" 

"Yes,  signore."  Oreste  smiled  with 
the  satisfied  air  of  one  who  has  done  a 
good  day's  work. 

"I  suppose  you  have  made  a  hand 
ful  of  money,"  continued  the  signore, 
severely. 

Oreste  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Not  great  things,  but  altro!  I  am 
content. ' ' 

The  signore  shrugged  in  his  turn. 
' '  Each  to  his  own  mind.  Your  sposina 
has  also  made  a  long  day ;  I  saw  her 
just  now." 

"Ah,  yes;  it  is  a  long  way  to  Vin- 
cigliata  when  one  must  walk.  The 
signore 's  commands?" 

"None." 

249 


Oreste's  Patron 

Truly,  the  Signorina  Americana,  if 
this  was  her  work,  had  small  reason  to 
be  proud  of  it.  The  signore's  frown 
enveloped  even  the  blue  envelope,  at 
which  he  stood  staring  long  after  Oreste 
had  left  the  room. 

And  so  it  ran  through  the  spring 
months — the  mournfully  beautiful  Tus 
can  spring.  The  nightingales  in  the 
villa  gardens  sang  and  sang  at  dusk, 
in  the  moonlight,  and  at  dawn,  and 
the  fireflies  glittered  all  through  the 
darkness  up  and  down  the  olive  slopes. 
An  intenser  life  quickened  in  the  little 
community  as  the  summer  stirred  in 
the  veins  of  her  children.  The  youths 
went  singing  up  and  down  the  hills, 
and  the  girls  and  women  lingered  over 
their  water-jars  at  the  fountain  in  the 
square.  For  what  is  it  to  be  poor  in 
the  summer-time? 

Sometimes  the  signore,  lying  awake 
at  night,  heard  Oreste's  mellow  voice 
250 


Oreste's  Patron 

as  he  passed  by  to  the  little  house. 
But  through  all  this  gaiety  of  being 
Gioja  stole  silently  and  dreamily,  and 
the  whisper  of  turned  heads  and  eyes 
askance  followed  her.  For  there  were 
the  ever-recurring  festas,  when  Oreste 
went  to  the  city,  and  where  then  did 
Oreste's  sposa  go?  That  is  what  the 
community  would  like  to  know,  for 
the  tale  about  her  grandmother  was 
quite  too  large  for  the  village  throat. 
She  kept  her  secret  well — yes;  but 
there  is  only  one  kind  of  a  secret  pos 
sible  to  the  Italian  mind. 

" Birbone!"  said  the  women,  with 
contempt,  of  Oreste,  while  the  men 
laughed  and  shrugged  their  shoulders. 
Oreste  had  caught  a  pretty  sposa,  who 
had  thought  herself  much  too  good 
for  them,  but  ma  che,  he  was  paying 
for  it. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  public 
curiosity  should  content  itself  with 
251 


Oreste's  Patron 

being  curious.  Maria,  one  of  those 
public-minded  souls  which  never  lack 
in  any  community,  toiled  all  the  way 
over  to  Vincigliata,  and  brought  back 
personal  assurance  from  the  nonna  her 
self  that  that  pious  granddaughter 
had  not  been  seen  in  Vincigliata  all 
these  months. 

"Eight  good  miles  I  trudged  in  all 
that  sun,  and  a  day's  work  lost!"  de 
clared  Maria,  mopping  her  brow  in 
the  midst  of  an  excited  and  sympa 
thetic  group.  "If  my  legs  ache!  but 
for  the  good  of  the  community  I  did 
it,  and  what  I  know  to-night  the  priest 
shall  know  before  morning.  I  made 
haste  to  go  to-day,  for  to-morrow 
being  the  festa  of  our  Saint  John, 
Oreste  goes  to  the  city,  and  that 
civetta — " 

And    nobody    could    say    but    that 
Maria  had  done  well  and  the  girl  de 
served  whatever  might  come  of  it. 
252 


Oreste's  Patron 

But  when  the  priest,  sad-eyed  and 
stern,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  lit 
tle  house  in  the  early  morning  after 
mass,  no  one  was  there.  Having  de 
livered  a  vain  fusillade,  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  many  suggestions  offered 
from  the  neighbours'  windows,  the 
priest  turned  away,  and  betook  himself 
with  a  clouded  brow  to  the  signore, 
who  had  invited  him  by  Oreste  to 
breakfast  with  him  that  morning.  He 
was  waiting  for  him  now  on  the  terrace 
with  a  morning  countenance,  and  the 
breakfast-table,  heaped  with  roses, 
wore  a  festal  air,  which  did  not  escape 
the  priest,  preoccupied  though  he 
was. 

"You  also  are  keeping  a  feast, 
signore,  to  appearances?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah,  indeed!  a  festa  Americana?" 

"No,  my  own.  And  now  what  is  it 
about  these  two?  Oreste,  I  know, 
253 


Oreste's  Patron 

went  to  the  city.  I  tried  to  engage 
him,  but  he  was  pre-engaged  to  that 
patron  of  his.  And  Gioja — well,  I 
saw  her  pass  a  little  later." 

"While  we  were  in  the  church,  the 
guilty  child!"  said  the  priest,  sternly. 
"But  where  can  she  have  gone?"  he 
added,  sighing.  "I  have  been  much 
to  blame ;  I  have  been  too  negligent ; 
I  should  have  dealt  with  her  from  the 
first.  Colpa  mia!"  He  crossed  him 
self  and  looked  so  discouraged  that  the 
signore  was  touched. 

"Listen,  amico  mio,"  he  said. 
"As  you  say,  it  is  a  bad  business,  and 
arrange  it  how  you  will,  it  will  never 
be  well  that  those  two  shall  live  here. 
The  last  of  it  will  never  be  heard,  if 
I  know  your  people.  I  am  going  away 
to  Livorno  next  week,  and  I  have 
asked  Oreste  to  go  with  me.  I  like 
the  fellow,  and  away  from  here  she 
may  come  to  her  senses.  She  is  young, 
254 


Oreste's  Patron 

and   guilty  though   she  may  be,    she 
does  not  seem  casehardened. " 

"Going  away!"  exclaimed  the 
startled  priest  in  dismay.  "And 
going  to  take  those  two  away  from 
their  own  country — to  a  foreign  place ! 
What  an  idea — but  what  an  idea!" 

"Scarcely  foreign;  it  is  only  the 
other  side  of  Florence." 

"Ah,  ah!  to  you,  but  to  us  villa 
gers  !  It  is  not  a  little  thing  to  leave 
one's  home,  where  one  has  been  born 
and  bred  and  knows  his  neighbours 
after  all,  whether  they  be  good  or  bad. 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  know  one's  neigh 
bours.  And  to  go  so  far — but  they 
will  think  twice  before  they  say  'yes.' 

"On  the  contrary,  Oreste  goes  will 
ingly.  I  do  not  think  he  is  so  blind ; 
he  knows  well  they  are  not  friendly  to 
his  sposa  here." 

"And    Gioja,"     said    the    startled 
priest;  "will  she  go?" 
255 


Oreste's  Patron 

"He  says  so." 

The  priest  drew  a  long  breath,  half 
relief,  half  regret,  and  wholly  wonder. 

"Well,  well;  it  is  perhaps  the  best 
that  could  happen ;  but  to  lose  two  of 
my  flock — and  to  leave  one's  country 
like  that !  You  are  a  strange  people, 
you  Americans.  And  what  becomes 
of  us  without  either  you  or  the  Signo- 
rina  Americana  here  in  the  villa?" 

"There  are  more  Americans," 
replied  the  signore,  smiling;  "and  who 
knows  but  that  your  signorina  will 
return,  to  make  you  more  trouble 
yet?" 

The  priest  shook  his  head.  "The 
next  time  she  may  bring  her  own 
maid;  not  another  girl  from  our  vil 
lage  shall  she  turn  the  head  of — that 
signorina."  And  the  very  tone  of  his 
voice  as  he  said  it  was  witness  that  he 
affirmed  what  he  knew  to  be  false. 
The  signore  understood,  and  laughed. 
256 


Oreste's  Patron 

"Put  it  all  away,  amico  mio,  for  to 
day,  and  go  with  me  to  Florence. 
Gioja  has  gone,  and  you  can  do  noth 
ing  but  listen  to  your  people,  who  will 
deafen  you  before  night.  Come  and 
see  your  bella  Firenze  in  her  festa  dress. 
We  will  take  a  tram  below,  and  find 
a  cab  at  the  gates." 

The  priest's  face  brightened  like  a 
child's. 

"Ah,  signore,  now  it  is  I  you  are 
proposing  to  carry  away;  but  why 
not?  It  is  long  since  I  was  in  Flor 
ence,  and  I  have  already  said  service 
here.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  say 
anything  to  my  people;  discretion, 
Signore  Americano,  discretion  is  a 
great  thing." 

And  thus  it  happened  that  when  the 
village  folk  saw  the  good  father  depart 
in  company  with  the  signore  forestiere, 
they  sagely  concluded  —  with  that 
sense  of  the  importance  of  our  own 


Oreste's  Patron 

affairs  common  to  the  race — that  the 
two  had  gone  to  Fiesole,  or  who 
knew  but  even  Florence,  to  consult  the 
authorities  in  the  matter  of  that  dis- 
graziata  Gioja.  And  in  point  of  fact, 
though  the  priest  was  fairly  running 
away  from  the  subject,  he  was  destined 
to  run  straight  into  its  arms  instead. 

Florence  was  all  in  festa,  and  if  there 
is  anything  lovelier  than  Florence  in 
fcsta,  who  has  seen  it?  The  streets 
ran  over  with  bright  sunshine,  and  the 
Florentines,  reinforced  by  contadini 
from  all  the  neighbouring  towns,  in 
holiday  garb,  made  a  bright  shifting 
mass  for  the  sunbeams  to  play  over. 
Arno  rolled  its  now  shallow  stream 
like  muddy  gold,  and  pale  golden  pal 
aces  stood  loftily  up  and  looked  down 
at  her.  Over  her  streaming  Ways 
Florence  shook  the  bells  in  all  her 
towers  every  fifteen  minutes,  and  at 
intervals  the  deep  golden-throated 
258 


Oreste's  Patron 

voice  in  Giotto's  Tower  answered  with 
a  rich  hum,  hum-m,  hum-m-m,  like  a 
melodious  summer  bee.  The  strident 
notes  of  the  grilli  in  their  little  wicker 
cages,  brought  from  the  Cascine  at 
dawn,  completed  the  joyous  pande 
monium. 

The  signore's  spirits  ran  at  higher 
tide  than  even  the  bright  tide  of  hu 
manity  about  him.  He  laughed  at  all ; 
he  bought  flowers  of  the  boys  and  girls 
who  ran  after  the  carriage,  holding  up 
glowing  armfuls,  until  the  carriage- seajt 
was  heaped  and  the  priest  held  up  his 
hands  at  the  extravagance.  He  cli 
maxed  his  folly  by  buying  all  the 
remaining  grilli  in  their  cages  and  let 
ting  them  loose  upon  the  grass  of  the 
Cascine. 

"Do  not  scold,  amico  mio,"  he  said 

to  the  priest,  gaily.     "I  told  you  it  is 

a  festa.     I  have  come  into  a  fortune, 

and  it  is  written  that  nobody  must  be 

259 


Oreste's  Patron 

shut  up  to-day  or  hungry. ' '  He  tossed 
a  handful  of  soldi  to  a  group  of  chil 
dren. 

"I  am  afraid  your  fortune  will  not 
last  long,"  replied  the  priest,  shaking 
his  head. 

But  he  forgot  his  own  prudence 
when,  a  little  later,  they  went  to  a 
restaurant — not  Doney's,  where  the 
foolish  tourists  go,  fancying  themselves 
in  Italy,  and  where  the  priest  would 
have  been  miserable,  but  Gilli's,  on 
the  Piazza.  Signoria.  There,  it  being 
a  feast  day  and  his  host  newly  come 
into  a  fortune,  the  good  father  ate, 
for  the  honour  of  religion  and  his  own 
temporal  good,  such  a  meal  as  had 
never  before  found  its  way  to  his 
stomach,  and  washed  it  down  with 
glasses  of  Chianti,  not  merely  old 
(vecchio),  but  extravagantly  old  (stravec- 
chio).  Golden  moments  were  these, 
and  he  put  down  his  glass  at  last  with 
260 


Oreste's  Patron 

a  sigh  of  regret  that  it  was  impossible 
to  prolong  them  further.  His  limit  of 
possibility  was  reached. 

"Now,"  said  the  signore,  casting  an 
extravagant  fee  upon  the  table,  "where 
next?" 

"To  the  Baptistery  and  the  Duomo, 
my  son,"  answered  the  priest,  with 
sudden  gravity,  crossing  himself,  "to 
say  our  grazie  and  put  up  a  little 
prayer  to  our  good  Saint  John." 

It  was  precisely  upon  emerging  from 
the  door  of  Gilli's  in  this  comfortable 
and  untroubled  frame  of  mind,  arising 
from  the  perfect  balance  of  the  carnal 
and  the  spiritual,  that  he  came  face  to 
face  with  the  worst  trouble  of  all. 
For,  straightening  his  shabby  hat  and 
smoothing  his  shabby  cassock,  what 
should  his  eyes  fall  upon  but  Oreste — 
Oreste,  who,  having  that  moment 
emerged  from  a  cafe  below,  was  assist 
ing  a  very  elegant  signora  into  his  cab. 
261 


Oreste's  Patron 

Just  as  he  got  her  safely  tucked  in,  his 
eye  caught  the  two  pairs  staring  at 
him.  His  sturdy  face  blanched;  then 
before  either  could  make  a  step  for 
ward,  he  had  shut  the  door,  sprung 
quickly  to  the  seat,  and  touching  up 
Elisabetta,  with  a  glance  of  defiance, 
whirled  away.  The  two  left  staring 
drew  a  long  breath. 

"Ebbene,"  remarked  the  signore  at 
last,  "so  the  patron  was  a  patroness; 
perhaps  Gioja  has  not  been  so  much  to 
blame  after  all." 

"I  will  know,"  answered  the  priest, 
sharply. 

The  signore  said  a  word  to  the  near 
est  cabman,  slipping  something  into  his 
hand,  and  in  a  moment  they  were 
bowling  up  the  Via  Calzaioli.  It  cost 
a  city  cabman  nothing  to  keep  Elisa 
betta  in  sight,  and  they  drew  up  in 
the  Piazza  del  Duomo  just  in  time  to 
see  Oreste  deferentially  assisting  his 
262 


Oreste's  Patron 

signora  to  alight  at  the  cathedral  steps. 
He  saw  them,  and  his  eye  shot  such  a 
glance  of  stern  warning  that  both  men 
sat  stupidly,  and  the  next  moment 
nearly  fell  over  each  other  as  the  si 
gnora  in  her  silks  and  nodding  plumes 
swept  by — for  lo,  it  was  Gioja! 

In  another  instant  she  had  swept  up 
the  steps  and  the  great  doors  had  swal 
lowed  her.  Then  Oreste's  manner 
changed.  He  leaned  against  the  cab 
door  and  turned  upon  the  two  men  a 
regard  which  said,  "And  now,  what 
have  you  to  say  about  it?" 

There  was  a  decidedly  awkward 
silence  while  they  drew  near;  then 
the  signore  burst  out  laughing. 

"You  have  found  a  bel patron,  amico 
mio!"  he  said. 

"What  folly!"  ejaculated  the  priest, 
holding  up  his  hands  and  recovering 
breath  at  last.  "Gran'  Dio!  what 
folly!" 

263 


Oreste's  Patron 

"  Reverendo,"  replied  Oreste, 
quietly,  "perhaps  not  so  much  folly  as 
some  of  you  have  thought.  Perhaps 
I  know  what  the  tongues  up  there  wag 
like,  and  if  I  choose  not  to  mind, 
whose  affair  is  that?  If  it  pleases  us 
to  please  ourselves,  who  is  the  worse 
for  that?" 

"And  the  scandal!"  exclaimed  the 
priest;  "and  the  waste,  and  the  ideas 
you  are  putting  in  Gioja's  head — the 
wicked  vanity  and  pride.  Oh,  I  told 
the  signorina  how  it  would  end!" 

"As  for  that,  reverendo,  you  will 
pardon  me,  but  tongues  must  wag 
when  they  are  hung  in  the  middle,  and 
if  they  wag  about  Gioja,  why  it  doesn't 
hurt  her,  and  some  one  else  goes  safe. 
And  as  for  the  waste — the  price  of  a 
fare  now  and  then — why,  if  it  suits  us 
to  live  on  polenta  six  days  and  take  our 
pleasure  on  the  seventh,  whose  misery 
is  that?  I  have  never  yet  lacked  my 
264 


Oreste's  Patron 

soldo  for  the  church,  or  for  a  neigh 
bour  poorer  than  I." 

"And  the  ideas  you  arc  encouraging 
in  her  unhappy  head !  But  I  will  have 
something  to  say  to  that  child." 

"Reverendo,"  interposed  Oreste, 
sternly,  "by  your  leave;  you  are  a 
good  man,  half  a  saint,  and  I  am  only 
an  ignorant  peasant,  but  there  are  some 
things  priests  and  nuns  do  not  under 
stand,  and  what  one  does  not  under 
stand,  that  one  should  not  meddle 
with.  The  signorina  understood;  she 
knew  well  it  was  neither  pride  nor 
vanity  in  Gioja,  but  just  a  kind  of 
poesia,  which  made  her  like  to  play 
the  signora.  The  signorina  understood 
because  she  herself  was  full  of  poesia. 

"Oh,  the  signorina,  the  signorina!" 
interjected  the  priest  in  despair. 

"She  knew"  Oreste  went  on. 
"You  remember  the  time  of  the  hat, 
reverendo?" 

265 


Oreste's  Patron 

"ff  I  remember!"  groaned  the 
priest. 

"Ebbene,"  said  Oreste,  emphatic 
ally,  "when  I  found  it  out  I  went 
straight  to  the  signorina  and  told  her. 
She  was  on  the  terrace,  and  she  sat 
down  and  laughed  a  little — you  re 
member  our  signorina's  way  of  laugh- 
ing?" 

It  was  to  the  priest  that  he  addressed 
this,  but  it  was  the  signore,  looking 
straight  before  him  and  smiling,  who 
looked  as  if  he  remembered. 

"Nothing  would  do,"  continued 
Oreste,  "but  that  she  must  jump  into 
my  cab  then  and  there,  with  only  a 
lace  on  her  head,  and  she  a  signorina! 
(here  the  signore  laughed  aloud)  and 
drive  straight  to  Florence,  not  to  one 
of  the  small  shops,  but  to  the  great 
milliner's  on  Tornabuoni,  where  she 
bought  a  hat — who  knows  what  it 
cost? — and  she  bade  me  take  it  to 
266 


Oreste's  Patron 

Gioja,  and  tell  her  to  wear  it  when  she 
liked,  for  there  was  nothing  wicked 
about  it." 

The  priest  groaned  again. 

"Only,"  added  Oreste,  with  the 
suspicion  of  a  twinkle,  "she  bade  us 
say  nothing  about  it,  lest  you,  rever- 
endo,  might  think  it  your  duty  to  lec 
ture  the  child  again,  and  it  was  a  pity, 
she  said,  to  make  so  good  a  man  un 
comfortable.  So,  as  she  could  not 
wear  it  openly,  we  had  to  find  a  way 
under  the  plate ;  and  as  the  whole  vil 
lage  would  have  been  talking  if  we 
went  away  together,  I  had  to  make 
that  little  story  of  a  patron.  Once 
outside  of  Vignola,  I  wait  for  Gioja, 
and  there  in  the  olive  grove  she  makes 
herself  into  a  signora;  and  on  the 
way  home  we  stop  again,  and — the 
signora' s  hat  and  gown  stowed  away 
under  my  seat — my  little  sposa  climbs 
up  beside  me,  and  we  talk  it  all  over. 
267 


Oreste's  Patron 

And  then  the  next  day  I  count  my 
francs,  and  the  folk  call  me  l  BirboneS 
and  the  lads  think  evil  of  my  Gioja 
because  she  would  never  look  at  them, 
and  we  laugh  in  our  sleeves.  What 
does  all  that  matter  when  one  is 
happy?" 

"And  so,"  said  the  priest,  sternly, 
"you  let  all  Vignola  think  your  wife 
has  a  lover,  and  say  nothing?" 

"They  have  to  think  something,  and 
isn't  it  better  they  should  think  she 
has  a  lover,  reverendo,  than  a  cappello 
di  signora?" 

"Securely,"  assented  the  priest, 
quickly.  "A  lover,  at  least,  they  can 
all  understand,  and  only  too  many  of 
them — Madonna  pardon  them! — have 
had;  but  a  signora's  hat  nobody  in  the 
village  has  ever  had,  and  they  would 
never  pardon  Gioja  for  having.  And 
they  have  right ;  Gioja  has  no  business 
with  a  signora's  hat — nor  you  to  waste 
268 


Oreste's  Patron 

your  time  and  money,  as  if  you  would 
be  bambini  all  your  lives.  And  for 
you — a  man — to  make  yourself  the 
servant  of  your  wife — oh,  it  is  shame 
ful,  vergognoso!" 

"Pardon  again,  reverendo,  but  that, 
too,  you  can't  understand.  If  it  is 
Gioja's/0<?.mz  to  play  the  signora — why, 
Gioja  \srny  poesia.  As  for  its  lasting — 
altro!  the  future  is  long,  and  if  we  had 
others  to  feed,  all  that  might  be  differ 
ent.  She  is  only  a  child  herself  now, 
but  when  the  good  God  sends  a  child 
to  a  child,  that  makes  a  woman  of  her. 
He  Himself  sees  to  that.  When  that 
comes  she  will  care  nothing  to  play 
the  signora  with  her  stupid  Oreste. 
All  this  our  signorina  knew;  for  that 
night  when  the  child  came  to  me  weep 
ing  and  saying  how  wicked  she  had 
been,  and  begging  me  to  forgive  her  and 
marry  her  at  once,  at  once — I,  signori, 
who  would  have  married  her  at  any  mo- 
269 


Oreste's  Patron 

ment  for  years! — it  put  me  in  trouble. 
I  had  fear  to  take  her  like  that,  and  per 
haps  have  her  sorry  for  it  later.  But 
I  went  to  our  signorina  with  her,  and 
told  her  all,  and  she  looked  at  us 
both,  and  said:  'Marry  her,  Oreste; 
you  safely  may' — for  the  signorina 
understood.  And  so — I  married  her." 
The  eyes  of  the  two  young  men  met 
suddenly  and  exchanged  across  the 
gulf  of  position  and  race  one  rapid 
thrill  of  comprehension.  The  priest 
looked  half-timidly  at  both;  but  per 
haps  he,  too,  comprehended  some 
thing,  for  he  said,  meekly : 
"After  all,  I  did  no  harm." 
"  Perhaps  not, "  replied  Oreste,  with 
his  frank  smile,  "but  that  was  not 
your  fault,  reverendo.  And  now,  if 
the  signore  and  you  will  excuse  me — 
that  was  the  bell  of  the  Elevation. 
If  Gioja  saw  you  she  would  have  no 
more  pleasure,  and  that  would  be  all 
270 


Oreste's  Patron 

the  more  a  pity,  because  it  is  our  last 
festa  here.  We  are  going  to  live  with 
the  signore — and  his  signora;  isn't  it 
so,  signore?" 

"Ah,  ah!"  exclaimed  the  priest, 
with  vivacity,  "so  that  was  your  festa 
and  your  fortune,  signore?  And  that 
is  why  you  have  so  much  sympathy 
for  even  the  grilli  and  these  foolish 
children!  Well,  well — it  is  perhaps 
the  best  that  could  happen,  for  it 
would  be  impossible  to  go  on  giving 
scandal  like  this,  and  if  I  said  a  word, 
you  would  all  be  for  taking  my  life. 
It  may  do  for  Gioja — who  is  not  like 
the  others — but  heaven  forbid  the  other 
girls  should  get  such  ideas  in  their 
heads;  I  have  enough  to  do  to  keep 
track  of  them  and  their  affairs  as  it  is." 

"Signori!"    said    Oreste,     warmly. 

The  two  slunk  behind  the  next  cab, 

and   from   there  beheld  the  stream  of 

life  suddenly  burst  from  the  big  doors 

271 


Oreste's  Patron 

of  the  Duomo — men  and  women  and 
children ;  prince  and  citizen  and  peas 
ant  ;  and  among  them  a  slender,  grace 
ful  shape,  her  signora's  hat  sitting 
well  upon  the  ruffled  gold  of  her  hair, 
and  her  long  skirt  raised  in  one  gloved 
hand  with  a  gesture  at  which  the  sig- 
nore's  heart  beat  suddenly  faster 
against  the  blue  envelope  above  it. 
So  very  excellent  an  imitation  of  the 
signora  that  even  an  expert  need  not 
blush  to  be  deceived  by  it. 

Oreste  stepped  forward  and  flung 
open  the  cab  door  with  ostentation. 
The  signora  mounted  languidly,  and 
sank  back  against  the  cushions,  mak 
ing  a  great  rustling  of  silk.  The 
loungers  on  the  Duomo  steps  stole 
covert  glances  at  the  pretty  woman. 
Then  Oreste  slammed  the  door,  took  off 
his  hat,  and  approached  deferentially. 

"Commanda,     signora?"     he     said, 
loud  enough  for  every  one  to  hear. 
272 


Oreste's  Patron 

"Allacasa — home,"  responded  the 
signora,  with  superb  languor. 

And  mounting  upon  the  seat,  with 
a  parting  glance  of  mingled  triumph 
and  humour  in  the  direction  of  the  two 
watchers,  Oreste,  with  Elisabetta,  and 
the  signora  whirled  triumphantly  away. 

The  two  left  upon  the  sidewalk  re 
mained  speechless  for  a  few  minutes; 
then  the  priest's  eye  caught  his  com 
panion's,  deprecatingly,  but  with  an 
echo  of  Oreste's  twinkle. 

"That  signorina, "  he  said,  with  an 
indulgent  sigh,  "she  has  much  to 
answer  for ! ' ' 

But  the  signore,  looking  into  the 
distance  and  laughing  softly  to  him 
self,  said  not  a  word. 


273 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

The  Vanni  had  been — heaven  knows 
how  poor,  until  that  happy  thought  of 
putting  bath-houses  on  their  worthless 
strip  of  land  bordering  on  the  beach 
occurred  to  them.  Then  they  began 
to  rise  in  the  world,  slowly  at  first, 
then  faster  and  faster,  like  a  balloon. 

First  it  was  a  new  coat  of  paint  for 
the  hovel  back  of  the  bath-houses, 
then  they  left  the  hovel  and  took  a 
two- story  cottage,  which  they  pres 
ently  rented  in  the  summers,  and  now 
it  was  no  longer  safe  to  remember  that 
a  Vanni  had  ever  tended  a  bath-house 
and  been  thankful  for  the  per  here  of 
a  visiting  stranger.  Every  summer 
they  rented  the  villino  at  a  price,  and 
went  up  into  the  mountains,  where 
277 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

one  month's  rent  sufficed  them  for  the 
season,  and  the  other  three  nestled 
snugly  in  the  bank  against  that  of  last 
summer,  till  there  was  enough  there  to 
buy  a  warm  little  vineyard  up  on  the 
slopes.  After  that  it  was  Signor  and 
Signora  Vanni ;  the  bank  officials  alone 
knew  with  how  much  reason. 

The  townspeople  wondered  till  their 
heads  ached  what  the  Vanni  would  do 
with  all  that  money.  The  Vanni 
themselves  were  not  prompt  to  decide 
so  weighty  a  question.  There  were  no 
children  to  educate ;  every  one  of  their 
five  lay  in  the  Campo  Santo ;  and  they 
themselves  were  too  old — half  a  cen 
tury  of  hardship  behind  them — to  learn 
new  ways  of  wearing  their  clothes  and 
eating  their  food  which  a  younger  gen 
eration  would  have  taught  them. 

Still,  one  has  one's  ambitions,  and 
it  is  not  so  much  the  poor  in  spirit  as 
the  poor-spirited  who  would  consent- 
278 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

ingly  leave  the  world  before  he  has  cut 
anything  of  a  figure  in  it. 

The  Vanni  did  not  lack  spirit,  but 
the  places  in  which  one  can  make  a 
figure  in  a  village  like  Reggio  are  few. 
There  is  the  Piazza  (how  unnecessary 
to  add  that  its  name  is  "Vittorio 
Emmanuele")  for  the  women,  the  caf6 
for  the  men,  and  the  Campo  Santo  for 
everybody.  For  the  first,  the  Signora 
Vanni  had  not  the  requisite  youth, 
beauty,  or  courage,  being  for  very 
shamefacedness  unequal  to  the  assump 
tion  of  any  other  garb  than  her  neigh 
bours  had  known  her  in  all  her  life; 
for  the  second,  Vanni  was  the  man  of 
fewest  words  in  the  town;  nor  could 
he,  who  had  passed  his  whole  life  in 
amassing  soldi  painfully,  ever  learn 
the  trick  of  throwing  them  about. 
"Something  worth  while,"  was  what 
they  both  aspired  to,  a  judicious  ex 
penditure  of  their  money  in  large 
279 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

sums,  which  should  bring  forth  ade 
quate  social  returns;  and  both  dimly 
perceived  they  could  never  cope  with 
the  rising  Felice  and  Bardi  about  them, 
who  had  the  support  of  a  younger 
generation  in  Piazza,  and  cafe\  Piazza. 
and  cafe  were,  then,  out  of  the  ques 
tion  ;  there  remained  the  Campo 
Santo,  and  here  the  younger  genera 
tion  of  the  Vanni  already  were. 

The  Campo  Santo  is  the  Champs 
Elysees  and  Bois  de  Boulogne  of 
Reggio ;  at  times  it  is  its  Grand  Opera. 
Well  to  the  northward  of  the  sea-bor 
dering  town  it  lies,  through  a  space  of 
woods  where,  amid  falling  leaves  and 
blossoming  gorse  in  autumn,  on  soft 
green  moss  in  spring,  the  village  foot 
presses  a  straggling  procession  of  prints 
all  day  long  on  Sundays,  the  only  day 
of  the  seven  when  the  village  foot  has 
time  to  stray.  On  the  special  feasts, 
such  as  Easter  and  the  Day  of  the 
280 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

Dead,  the  social  life  of  the  year  cul 
minates  in  a  veritable  pageant — a 
rivalry  of  sepulchral  gaiety  which  is  to 
the  town  what  the  flower  corso  is  to 
Nice. 

Here,  within  the  walled  enclosure 
which  held  the  sorrows  and  the  pride 
of  Reggio,  the  Vanni  brood  had  occu 
pied  successively  narrow  graves  for  the 
allotted  ten  years,  and  then  been 
removed  to  the  crypt  below  the  church, 
which  was  piled  with  bones  and  skulls 
of  the  disinterred ;  for  at  that  time  the 
fortunes  of  the  house  of  Vanni  had  not 
reached  to  the  requisite  number  of 
francs  which  would  ensure  a  separate 
box  of  lodgment  for  what  were  in  sad 
truth  now  only  "the  remains"  of  the 
defunct.  Thus  at  Easter  and  the  feast 
of  All-Souls'  the  Vanni  wandered  dis 
consolate  among  the  complacent 
throngs,  flaunting  their  funeral  wreaths 
and  portraits.  They  felt  themselves 
281 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

at  a  disadvantage  even  here,  and  ' '  with 
five  dead  ones,"  as  the  Signora  Vanni 
said  with  sad  pride,  it  did  seem  hard 
not  to  be  able  to  make  anything  of  a 
mortuary  figure.  There  was  her  cousin, 
Lisandrina,  who  had  buried  but  one, 
and  the  to-do  she  made  over  that 
grave  every  Giorno  dei  Morti  was  be 
yond  the  believable,  with  her  tissue- 
paper  wreaths  and  natural  flowers — the 
poorest  kind  of  decorations,  not  a 
really  superior  emblem  among  them. 
The  Signora  Vanni  often  thought  how 
beautiful  she  would  make  her  five 
graves  now  that  she  had  the  means, 
had  she  only  the  graves.  It  was  hard, 
too,  she  murmured  to  Vanni,  and  he 
brushed  away  a  sympathetic  moisture, 
that  their  five  should  not  look  as  well 
as  others — she  would  name  no  names. 
"When  we  have  put  by  a  little 
money,  Maria,  perhaps  before  another 
All-Souls',  we  will  buy  one  of  the  lots 
282 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

near  the  wall,  and  a  little  tablet  will 
not  ruin  us,"  her  husband  said,  for  he, 
too,  was  vexed  not  to  hold  his  own  in 
the  cemetery. 

That  was  the  year  they  rented  their 
house  for  the  first  time,  and  the 
amount  it  gave  them  made  the  tablet 
and  lot  so  possible  that — 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Vanni 
one  day,  as  the  two  sat  dipping  their 
peasant  bread  in  thin  soup,  "after  all, 
a  lot  like  that — what  is  it  for  five?  and 
we  shall  be  two  more  some  day.  If 
we  waited  to  rent  the  villino  another 
year,  and  bought  a  double  lot  like 
that  of  the  Bardi — " 

His  wife  looked  up  horror-stricken. 
"The  cost!"  she  exclaimed.  "The 
cost,  Giacomo!" 

"But  when  one  is  doing  a  thing!" 

he  persisted.     "A  small  lot — that  is 

no  more  than  anybody  has — a  nothing- 

at-all ;  but  with  one  of  those  large  ones, 

283 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

one  has  really  something  for  one's 
money.  And  who  is  there  to  save 
for?  It  is  all  we  can  do  for  the  bam 
bini,  and  why  should  not  ours  lie  as 
well  as  any?" 

"Well,  well,"  returned  the  signora, 
excitedly,  "I  don't  deny  it  would  be 
something  I  should  take  pleasure  in 
always,  and  it  would  do  us  good, 
even  when  we  are  gone.  Besides, 
with  five  dead  it  does  seem  only  fit 
ting — only,"  she  added  with  a  sigh, 
"we  shall  have  nothing  this  All- 
Souls'." 

"No,  but  next,"  replied  her  hus 
band,  "we  shouldn't  make  the  poorest 
figure  in  the  Campo  Santo  —  eh, 
Maria?" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  have  reason,"  said 
the  Signora  Vanni. 

On  All-Souls'  Day  they  walked 
about  among  the  crowd,  covertly  ob 
serving,  and  the  signora  nodded  when 
284 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

her  husband  looked  with  contempt  at 
the  smaller  lots.  "You  are  right — one 
of  those  small  ones,  for  five — it  would 
be  really  indecent.  When  one  has 
waited  so  long,  one  should  have  the 
best.  I  can  save  something  this  year; 
we  do  not  really  need  soup  every  day; 
it  is  just  a  habit  like  another." 

They  rented  again  that  year,  and 
the  Signora  Vanni  found  many  small 
places  where  she  had  begun,  she  said, 
"to  throw  away  money  since  they  had 
nothing  to  spend  it  on."  But  she  did 
not  throw  anything  away  now;  soup 
every  other  day  was  all  she  asked,  for 
her  part.  Thus  the  savings  made  so 
good  a  sum  that  Vanni,  in  counting 
them  one  day,  had  "  a  true  inspira 
tion,"  he  said. 

"What  if  we  do  not  buy  a  lot  at  all? 
One  can  never  make  anything  distin 
guished  of  a  lot;  it  is  always  out  of 
doors,  nothing  really  gives  it  'an  air  ' ; 
285 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

but  those  mortuary  chapels  which  run 
round  two  sides  of  the  Campo  Santo — 
those  are  something  to  remark  upon." 

The  Signora  Vanni  let  fall  her  work 
and  gasped. 

"There  is  one  now  next  to  the  Dot- 
tore  Tordi;  the  Avvocato  Mantini 
wants  it,  I  know,  but  the  poor  man 
has  not  the  quattrini"  A  smile  of 
satisfaction  curled  his  lips.  "What 
say  you,  Maria?  That  would  be  really 
an  investment." 

Next  to  the  Doctor  Tordi !  It  was 
as  if  he  said  "next  to  the  Archangel 
Gabriel,"  or  "on  the  other  side  of  His 
Holiness  the  Pope."  It  was  going 
straight  among  the  aristocracy.  Those 
chapels  were  the  show  places  of  the 
Campo  Santo ;  only  the  acknowledged 
gentlefolk  lay  there;  wreaths  and 
lamps  hung  there  more  or  less  all  the 
year,  while  at  Easter  and  All-Souls' 
the  walls  were  gayer  than  a  theatre. 
286 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

"Only,"  said  Vanni,  reading  her 
emotions  in  her  fluttering  breath  and 
moving  lids,  "I  don't  say  it  won't  cost 
us  some  economies  for  a  year  or  so. 
Altro!  it  will  be  worth  it,  and  a 
wreath  or  two  really  shows  for  some 
thing  on  marble;  besides,  the  metal 
does  not  tarnish  so  much  in  there." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  his  wife, 
grasping  at  a  pretence  for  calmness. 
"It  will  be  an  economy  in  the  end. 
I've  seen  good  wreaths,  that  cost  ten 
francs  and  ought  to  last  a  lifetime, 
spoiled  in  five  or  six  years  in  the  sun 
and  fog.  And  we  might  economise 
the  wreaths,  too,  if — "  She  cast  a 
hesitating  glance  at  Vanni. 

"Well,  speak  out,"  he  said,  good- 
naturedly;  he  was  pleasurably  excited 
himself,  for  it  gratified  a  man's  pride 
to  know  he  could  buy  what  the  Avvo- 
cato  could  not. 

"If  one  could  do  without  a  flask  of 
287 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

wine  or  two — "  stammered  she,  for  it 
is  dangerous  work  attacking  a  man  in 
his  stomach. 

"It  is  our  own,"  muttered  Vanni, 
"and  cost  us  nothing  but — " 

' '  Only  a  flask  or  two,  Giacomo, ' '  she 
hastened  to  say.  ' '  I  speak  on  the  part 
of  myself;  for  a  long  time  I've  been 
thinking  I  should  be  better  without 
it,"  she  added,  mendaciously. 

"Well,  well,"  replied  her  husband, 
easily;  "you  may  be  right;  all  stom 
achs  are  not  alike;  I  never  felt  the 
wine  hurt  mine  any.  And  if  you  could 
manage  to  do  without  a  new  gown — 
only  this  year,  you  understand? — once 
we  have  bought  the  chapel,  we  shall 
have  no  reason  to  stint  ourselves." 

' ' That  is  true, ' '  assented  she  eagerly. 
' '  Cht!  what  do  I  need ;  I  go  nowhere. 
When  we  have  the  chapel  to  walk  to, 
then  it  will  be  another  thing;  a  good 
gown  will  only  be  in  keeping." 
288 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

"Securely,"  Vanni  consented,  cor 
dially.  "It  will  be  in  better  taste  to 
wait  till  then.  For  my  part  I  like  to 
do  things  of  a  piece." 

The  vintage  was  so  good  that  the 
whole  rent  and  more  went  into  the 
bank  that  year,  and  it  was  to  be  noted 
how  deferentially  the  bank  officials 
saluted  the  Vanni  on  the  street.  It 
was  open  talk  now  in  the  town  that 
the  Coniungi  Vanni  were  considering  a 
chapel  in  the  Campo  Santo — as,  indeed, 
who  had  a  better  right.  Every  one 
knew  the  very  day  when  they  drove 
out  to  make  the  selection.  Vanni  was 
obliged  to  keep  a  horse  now,  to  go  to 
and  from  the  vineyard,  and  it  was 
lucky,  for  the  Signora  Vanni  was  no 
longer  strong  enough  for  the  walk  to 
the  cemetery;  she  did  not  grow 
younger,  she  admitted. 

' '  How  we  could  ever  have  thought 
of  a  lot!  It  would  be  like  throwing 
289 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

money  away!"  declared  Vanni,  con 
temptuously,  as  he  glanced  about  the 
Campo  Santo.  He  left  his  wife  to 
admire  some  carved  cherubs  in  the 
chapel  of  the  archangel  —  that  is  to 
say,  of  the  doctor  —  while  he  talked 
a  little  cautious  business  with  the 
sacristan.  "In  a  matter  like  this  one 
must  not  go  too  fast,"  said  he,  when 
he  returned. 

"With  '.VANNI'  in  large  letters  just 
outside,  and  the  photographs  of  the 
bambini,  and  a  wreath,  and  a  lamp — 
eh,  will  that  make  a  figure  or  not?" 
he  asked  her  sotto  voce,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  attains  his  goal. 

The  signora  was  gazing  straight  out 
into  the  open  square  between  them  and 
the  gates. 

"Eh,"  her  husband  repeated, 
jocosely,  "what  could  be  better?" 

The  signora' s  answer  was  straight 
forward,  if  startling. 
290 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

"A  monument  would  be  better." 

"Eh — a  monument!"  Vanni  sat 
down  on  a  near-by  grave,  and  stared  at 
his  wife  with  dropped  jaw. 

"Yes,  a  monument,"  she  repeated, 
with  unexpected  decision.  "A  chapel, 
when  all  is  said,  what  is  it?"  She 
looked  with  scorn  about  her.  "One  is 
the  same  as  another;  there  is  nothing 
of  original  in  it.  But  a  monument, 
taller  than  these,  out  there,  with  your 
name  on  it,  and  a  figure,  perhaps  an 
angel  with  a  trumpet — there  would  be 
nothing  in  all  the  town  like  it. ' ' 

Vanni  sat  staring. 

"And  the  cost?"  he  said  at  last, 
ironically. 

"Cht!  a  year  or  two  of  economies, 
with  the  rent,  and  perhaps  a  flask  or 
two  less  of  wine  or  a  meal  or  two  more 
of  polenta — only  what  the  Church  is 
always  advising  for  our  souls'  good. 
And  for  something  really  worth  while, 
291 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

something  that  makes  a.  personaggio  of 
one — " 

Vanni  rose  up  straight  and  took  his 
wife's  arm  with  an  admiring  glance. 

"You  have  ideas — you!  Come,  let 
us  go." 

On  the  way  home  he  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  Carraras : 

"Now  one  knows  why  they  are 
there,"  he  said,  jestingly;  but  he  was 
actually  so  excited  that  he  could 
scarcely  drive,  and  though  she  kept 
quiet,  the  signora's  hands  were  burn 
ing. 

Nothing  of  all  that  did  Vanni  show 
when  he  talked  with  the  stone-cutters, 
casually,  in  the  presence  of  the  finest 
gossip  in  town,  next  day.  He  was  as 
cool  as  marble;  a  mere  matter  of  a 
monument  might  flutter  some  folk,  but 
not  the  Vanni.  The  impression  Cecco 
carried  away  and  disseminated  was 
that  if  the  Vanni  pleased  he  could 
292 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

have  set  a  monument  at  every  corner 
of  the  Campo  Santo;  it  was  only  by 
the  grace  of  humility  that  he  was  con 
tenting  himself  with  one  —  in  the 
centre. 

The  town,  however,  was  different. 
It  had  never  seen  a  marble  monument, 
the  most  being  the  broken  bust  of 
the  "Re  Galantuomo,"  in  the  piazza. 
of  his  name.  Nothing  was  talked  of 
now  but  the  Vanni  monument,  even 
at  election  time ;  in  fact,  it  was  hinted 
more  than  once  that  a  worse  man 
might  be  chosen  deputato  than  one  who 
could  honour  himself  and  the  town 
with  monuments  when  he  chose. 
There  was  something  now  really  to 
walk  to  the  Campo  Santo  for;  first  the 
pedestal,  then  a  superstructure,  cun 
ningly  made,  with  a  marble  canopy, 
and  four  little  angels  blowing  trumpets 
at  the  corners ;  then  a  tall  shaft  soar 
ing  right  up  against  the  blue,  with  a 
293 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

great  angel  blowing  a  great  trumpet  on 
top.  It  towered  above  everything  in 
the  place,  and  could  be  seen  a  long 
way  from  the  grove  beyond.  When 
one  entered  the  cemetery,  there  it 
was — the  first  thing,  the  last  thing,  in 
fact,  the  only  thing;  and  there  it  was 
for  everlasting.  The  church  could  not 
be  seen  for  it,  and  as  for  the  mortuary 
chapels — how  much  better  it  would 
have  been  for  them  if  they  could  not 
be  seen,  either!  And  on  that  marble 
shaft,  in  tall  relief,  went  the  letters 
VANNI 

It  was  as  if  the  angel  blew  them  at 
you  through  his  trumpet. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  all  this  was 
accomplished  in  a  day,  nor  a  year; 
that  great  angel,  in  particular,  went 
near  to  break  their  hearts  in  the  attain 
ment.  He  was  not  in  the  original 
design  at  all,  but  somehow  demon 
strated  his  own  necessity — became  vital 
294 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

to  the  shaft  as  it  soared  upwards.  It 
was  not  the  little  renunciations  of  wine 
and  soup,  nor  the  sacrifice  of  such 
small  things  as  could  possibly  be 
accounted — by  that  angel — luxuries, 
that  wore  upon  the  Vanni  spirit ;  but 
to  see  one's  whole  bank  account  go 
was  not  to  be  done  without  a  qualm, 
and  there  was  the  final  great  economy 
of  letting  the  villino  go  and  moving 
into  a  much  lesser  one.  It  would 
bring  a  lesser  rent,  also,  but  then  they 
were  agreed  a  lesser  rent  would  suffice, 
once  the  angel  affixed  to  the  shaft  in 
perpetuity ;  and  in  fine,  it  was  a  ques 
tion  between  the  angel  or  the  villino. 
The  angel  won.  Moreover,  the  Si- 
gnora  Vanni  declared  with  reason  that 
the  care  of  a  very  small  house  was  all 
she  felt  equal  to,  so  it  would  be  a  pos 
itive  blessing  on  the  monument  to 
begin  with.  Such  was  the  position  of 
the  Vanni  in  the  respect  of  his  fellow- 
295 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

townsmen  now  that  he  might  have 
returned  to  his  original  hovel,  had  it 
pleased  him,  and  suffered  no  diminu 
tion.  It  would  have  passed  for  an 
eccentricity  merely. 

"The  angel  will  be  in  place  next 
week,  and  there  are  ten  days  to  All- 
Souls',"  said  Vanni,  in  a  tone  of  satis 
faction,  to  his  wife.  "You  must  make 
haste  to  be  able  to  drive  there. ' '  For 
there  were  not  many  days  on  which 
the  signora  could  drive  now ;  she  got 
about  the  house,  even  small  as  it  was, 
with  difficulty. 

"What  she  needs  is  red  wine  and 
nourishing  food — a  chicken  every  day 
or  two,  and  broth,  strong  broth,"  said 
Doctor  Tordi  himself,  whom  Vanni 
had  called  in  in  affright  when  his  wife 
suddenly  fainted.  The  signora  nearly 
fainted  again  at  his  words.  Wine 
and  chicken  she  had  in  aversion,  she 
declared  with  vehemence,  and  the 
296 


The  Rise  of  the  Vanni 

smell  of  broth — strong  broth — made 
her  ill. 

That  which  the  neighbourly  mistress 
of  the  pensione  opposite  sent  over, 
however,  undoubtedly  prolonged  her 
life  a  few  days. 

On  the  Day  of  the  Dead  the  whole 
town  turned  out  to  witness  Vanni,  a 
broad  black  band  on  his  sleeve,  deposit 
at  the  feet  of  the  triumphant  angel  a 
large  metal  wreath,  with  streamers  of 
black  ribbon  four  inches  wide — "To 
the  memory  of  my  wife  and  five  chil 
dren." 

"Ah,  if  she  could  only  see  it  now!" 
he  thought,  withdrawing  a  pace  in 
admiration,  and  wiping  away  a  tear  of 
mingled  pride  and  grief. 

Those  who  stood  near  wiped  their 
eyes  also,  in  sympathy. 

The  next  year  they  made  him 
deputy  by  unanimous  vote. 


297 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

They  did  not  call  her  wise  in  the 
Piazzetta  where  she  lived  —  the  tiny 
square  at  the  junction  of  several  nar 
row,  dark  Florentine  streets,  a  stone's 
throw  away  from  the  great  Square  of 
the  Cathedral. 

"Pazza — fool!"  was  the  best  name 
they  had  for  her.  Not  even  the 
mother  who  loved  her,  and  alone  dimly 
understood  her,  because  she  was  her 
mother,  ever  thought  of  calling  Angio- 
lina  wise. 

"Poverina  —  poor  little  one,"  she 
would  say,  excusingly,  to  the  neigh 
bours  when  they  cast  scornful  glances 
at  the  child  sitting  dreaming  over  her 
straw  work,  or  even  forgetting  her  por 
tion  of  coarse  bread  in  watching  the 
301 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

doves  circling  over  the  roofs  between 
the  little  Piazza  and  the  great  one. 

Beppe,  bold  and  sturdy,  or  quick 
Annina,  sometimes  stole  up  surrepti 
tiously  and  appropriated  the  uneaten 
bread,  and  the  neighbours  applauded 
their  cleverness. 

"Let  her  go  hungry;  /would,"  said 
Paola,  next  door,  contemptuously. 
"That  will  teach  her  to  keep  her  eyes 
at  home.  She  works  no  more  than  a 
colombina  herself  —  a  useless  piece! 
Look  at  my  Paolina  there — all  her 
straw  finished,  and  not  a  braccia  of 
Angiolina's  done.  Any  of  my  six  can 
do  more  in  a  day.  I  say  who  has  the 
wit  to  get  the  bread,  eats  it,  in  this 
world." 

"She  is  not  like  the  others, poverina, 
but  she  is  no  fool,"  Angiolina's  mother 
replied.  Nevertheless,  she  sighed,  and 
scolded  the  child  in  the  presence  of 
the  neighbours :  but  secretly  she  could 
302 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

not  resist  giving  her  another  morsel  of 
bread,  while  affecting  to  scold  all  the 
harder. 

For  what  Paola  said  was  too  true. 
Any  child  in  the  Piazza,  could  turn  out 
more  "arms"  of  hat-braid  a  day;  and 
in  times  when  the  most  skilful  could 
make  but  three  or  four  soldi  by  a  full 
twelve  hours'  toil,  it  was  hard  to  see 
a  girl  with  ten  fingers  sit  mooning  over 
a  lapful  of  straw,  gazing  after  those 
useless  colombine. 

"If  one  had  them  in  a  pot,  or  turn 
ing  round  and  round  on  a  spit,  all 
brown  and  juicy,"  said  Paola,  smack 
ing  her  lips  at  the  image — "altro!  I 
could  stare  at  them  myself.  It  is  long 
enough  since  I  or  mine  tasted  such. 
But  up  there,  where  they  do  nobody 
any  good — and  eating  corn  enough  for 
a  Christian — it  makes  one  enraged!" 

And  who  could  blame  Paola,  eating 
only  corn  meal  herself  from  one  year 
303 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

to  another,  if  she  thanked  the  good 
God  for  one  thing :  not  one  pazza  like 
that  in  all  her  six! 

Chiara,  Angiolina's  mother,  knew 
there  was  reason  in  what  Paola  said, 
but  still  she  could  not,  as  she  said, 
think  her  child  quite  a  fool.  Her 
braid  was  the  straightest,  her  fingers 
the  deftest,  once  they  could  be  got  to 
work.  And  she  had  such  a  good 
heart,  too — never  answering  one  back, 
with  her  little  pale,  unscared  face. 
But  clumsy,  dull  Rosina  could  be 
depended  upon  to  turn  out  her  three 
braccie  a  day  as  regularly  as  the  sun 
rose  above  the  Apennines  and  set  over 
the  Carraras,  and  Annina  her  six 
baskets,  while  nobody  ever  knew  how 
much  or  how  little  Angiolina  might  do. 

She  would   sit   down  with  the  very 

best   of    resolutions    in    the    morning, 

her  fingers  flying  among  the  straw,  and 

presently  it  was  a  procession  of  chant- 

304 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

ing  priests,  or  the  doves  circling  about 
the  tower,  or  it  was  only  a  face  that 
pleased  her,  and  there  she  was,  miles 
away,  though  her  body  still  sat  in  the 
doorway  with  culpable  small  hands  idle 
upon  the  straw.  What  can  be  said  of 
a  girl  who  will  indulge  in  fancies  upon 
three  cents  a  day?  Only  a  mother's 
heart  is  large  enough  to  cover  such 
foolishness. 

"Still,  she  is  no  fool!"  Old 
Luigi,  who  made  a  living  picking 
up  cigar-ends  at  night,  and  found 
even  that  to  pay  better  than  straw 
work,  and  whose  eyes  by  constant 
peering  may  have  developed  a  second 
sight,  said  it,  too.  "She  is  no  fool, 
that  sees  itself  in  those  big  eyes  of 
hers." 

When   she   was  sent  to  carry  home 

the  finished  braid,  then  it  was  her  feet 

that  lingered — most  of  all  in  the  great 

Piazza  of  the   Duomo,    where  in   the 

305 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

niches  of  the  many-coloured  marbles 
nested  the  doves,  or  came,  an  ava 
lanche  of  wings,  upon  the  stones  below 
at  the  throwing  of  a  handful  of  yellow 
grain. 

Angiolina's  dream  was  to  possess  a 
soldo  of  her  own  and  buy  one  of  those 
papers  of  corn.  There  was  a  little 
foreigner  about  her  own  age  who  came 
daily  to  feed  the  doves,  drawing  soldo 
after  soldo  from  an  apparently  unlim 
ited  bank  in  her  small  pocketbook. 
The  doves  fed  from  her  hand  and 
perched  upon  her  shoulders  and  the 
lovely  daisy  -  wreathed  hat  which 
crowned  her  golden  hair.  Angiolina 
stood  opposite  and  regarded  this  child 
with  admiration.  The  doves  clung  to 
her  fingers,  greedily  pushing  each  other 
away,  and  the  little  American  laughed 
aloud.  Angiolina  laughed,  too,  and 
clapped  her  hands — when,  behold !  a 
whirling  mass  of  doves  rose  and  flew, 
306 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

every  last  dove  of  them,  to  the  top  of 
the  Campanile.  The  little  American 
girl  looked  reproachfully  at  Angiolina, 
who  hung  her  head,  and  picking  up 
her  basket  scurried  home,  to  be  scolded 
once  more  by  the  poor  mother. 

The  image  of  the  child  in  the  Piazza 
haunted  Angiolina  as  she  sat  working. 
It  tangled  itself  with  the  yellow  straw, 
which  began  to  take  on  shapes  of  it. 
Now  it  was  the  golden  hair  of  the 
signorina;  now  it  was  one  of  the  yel 
low  daisies  on  her  hat.  Angiolina  felt 
sure  she  could  make  straw  daisies — 
yes,  even  a  hat.  Her  fingers  began 
stealthily  to  shape  one;  they  were 
swift  fingers  when  the  heart  beat  in 
them,  and  before  dusk  she  was  de 
lightedly  regarding  a  tiny  hat,  fash 
ioned  like  the  little  American's,  even 
to  a  wreath  of  straw  flowers. 

Her  mother's  step  broke  the  spell, 
and  thrusting  the  wee  cappello  beneath 
3°7 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

her  skirt  she  fell  guiltily  to  work — 
really  guilty  this  time,  for  the  straw 
belonged  to  the  manufacturer,  and 
every  inch  would  have  to  be  accounted 
for.  There,  also,  was  the  tell-tale 
braid  in  her  lap,  strictly  measured 
every  day,  and  which  had  not  grown 
a  ringer's  length  in  all  this  making  of 
flowery  hats.  And  here,  just  in  time 
to  witness  her  confusion,  came  the 
good  old  priest  from  the  little  church 
beyond. 

"I  am  in  despair!"  exclaimed 
Chiara,  her  patience  exhausted.  "Not 
a  braccia  of  straw  to-day,  and  I  with 
seven  to  feed!" 

"And  half  her  good  bread  wasted 
on  those  wretched  colombine — I  myself 
saw  it.  What  do  you  say  to  that  now, 
Chiara?"  cried  Paola's  triumphant 
voice.  "Oh,  if  she  were  mine,  I 
know  what  she  would  get!" 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  her,  Father?" 
308 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

said  Chiara,  tearfully.  "She  has  her 
head  full  of  these  little  beasts,  as  if 
they  were  Christians!" 

The  Father  looked  mildly  at  the 
small  guilty  figure.  Perhaps  there 
were  not  too  many  of  his  people 
troubled  with  this  peculiar  form  of 
wickedness. 

"Let  be,  let  be,"  he  said,  indul 
gently.  "Our  good  Saint  Francis  loved 
them  and  preached  to  them;  perhaps 
his  spirit  is  in  this  little  one.  Only, 
figlia  mia,"  he  added,  gravely,  laying 
a  kind  hand  on  the  downcast  head, 
"though  it  is  not  a  sin  to  share  your 
crumbs  with  the  colombine,  not  to  help 
your  good  mother  is  a  very  great  sin. 
God  will  be  displeased  with  you  other 
wise,  and  you  will  never  arrive  to  be 
truly  an  angiolina,  with  shining  white 
wings  like  those  there.  Remember 
that,  my  daughter." 

The  gentle  reproof  went  home  to 
3°9 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

the  child's  heart,  for  she  loved  her 
mother  not  less — perhaps  more — than 
the  others  did.  It  was  only  the  ideas 
which  would  come  in  spite  of  herself 
and  make  her  forget. 

Why  did  the  good  God  give  her 
ideas  if  they  displeased  Him?  she  won 
dered.  But  perhaps  it  was  not  the 
good  God  at  all,  but  the  devil.  She 
stole  quietly  round  the  corner,  and 
drew  out  the  small  hat  cautiously,  to 
consider  whether  it  were  really  an 
inspiration  of  the  devil.  It  did  not 
look  diabolical,  but  wholly  beautiful; 
still  the  priest  always  said  you  could 
not  trust  to  that — God  had  allowed 
that  wicked  diavolo  to  be  so  very  clever. 

"Oh,  the  dear  little  hat!  It  will  just 
fit  Arthur.  Mama,  mayn't  I  buy  it? 
Ask  her  how  much  it  is,  please." 

And  there  was  the  little  American 
girl  on  her  way  to  the  Piazza,  with  her 
curly-haired  doll  in  her  arms. 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

"How  much  is  the  little  hat?" 
inquired  the  lady,  kindly,  in  Italian ; 
and  as  Angiolina  only  stood  dumbly 
staring,  she  took  out  a  franc-piece  and 
held  it  up.  The  little  hat  was  snatched 
suddenly  from  Angiolina's  hands. 

"Santa  Maria!  child,  are  you  a  fool 
indeed?"  screamed  Paola.  "A  whole 
franc  for  that  nothing-at-all !  But 
take  it — take  it,  signora!" 

"If  the  child  is  willing,  only,"  said 
the  lady,  hesitating. 

li  If  she  is  willing T  a  whole  week's 
pay  for  that  sciochezza!  Chiara — 
here,  Chiara !  Look  what  your  pazzina 
here  has  done!"  exclaimed  Paola,  as 
Angiolina's  mother  hurried  out,  ex 
pecting  some  fresh  calamity. 

"Here  is  this  signora,"  she  added, 
volubly,  "offering  a  week's  pay  for 
that  foolishness,  a  bambolinas  hat, 
and  that  simpleton  of  yours  has  not 
wit  to  take  it." 

3" 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

"But — how — did  you  make  it,  An- 
giolina?"  stammered  Chiara,  and  as 
the  child  dropped  her  head  guiltily, 
"But  it  is  really  a  beautiful  little  hat! 
Take  it,  signora,  take  it!"  for  the  sight 
of  the  franc-piece  fairly  set  her  trem 
bling. 

Angiolina  watched  furtively  while 
the  hat  was  fitted  on  the  doll's  curls, 
mutely  accepting  the  turn  events  had 
taken.  She  even  felt  a  thrill  of  delight 
to  see  the  little  hat  upon  the  doll. 

"It  is  beautifully  made,"  said  the 
lady.  "Did  you  make  it,  my  child?" 

Angiolina  nodded. 

"If  you  will  make  me  half  a  dozen 
such,  I  will  pay  you  a  franc  for  every 
one." 

Chiara  and  Paola  exchanged  glances. 
Six  weeks'  work!  Chiara's  head  spun. 

"Say  yes,  child,  and  thank  the  si 
gnora,"  said  Paola,  nudging  her. 

Angiolina  nodded  again,  with  bright 
312 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

eyes.  Not  only  to  be  allowed  to  make 
little  hats,  but  to  be  paid  for  doing 
it!  and  no  scolding!  It  was  not  the 
devil,  then,  but  God. 

' '  Six  francs  at  a  word ! ' '  exclaimed 
Paola,  lifting  her  hands,  when  the  si- 
gnora  and  the  signorina  were  gone. 
"So  that's  why  her  braid  is  never 
done;  but  it  hasn't  turned  out  so  badly 
this  time.  Six  francs!  you  are  a 
lucky  one,  Chiara;  and  let  me  tell  you 
this:  there  are  other  signoras!  Get 
one  of  the  shops  to  take  the  cappellini; 
they'll  give  you  no  franc,  but  twenty- 
five  centesimi,  even,  for  one  of  those! 
That  Angiolina  has  done  a  stroke  of 
work  this  time." 

"Whoever taught  you,  Angiola  #«<2, 
to  make  the  little  hat?"  asked  her 
mother. 

"The  good  God,"  answered  Angio 
lina,  confidently. 

Even  the  making  of  little  hats  could 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

not  stay  the  busy  brain  from  other 
fancies,  though  it  was  far  pleasanter 
than  weaving  the  monotonous  yards  of 
braid.  The  while  she  worked  she 
wondered  about  the  little  American 
girl — what  it  must  feel  like  to  have 
beautiful  clothes  and  dolls  and  golden 
curls.  When  no  one  was  looking  she 
made  herself  curls  of  straw  and  held 
them  to  her  own  dark  curly  head. 
And  then  she  fancied  herself  standing 
in  the  sunlight,  with  all  the  soldi  one 
wanted,  and  doves — doves  clinging  to 
your  fingers,  and  perching  on  your 
shoulders,  all  those  lovely,  white- 
winged,  bright- eyed,  glancing  things. 

She  tried  with  furtive  crumbs  to 
coax  the  stray  ones,  but  they  kept 
sagaciously  beyond  the  border  of  her 
gown,  and  some  one — Paola  or  Bep- 
pina  or  Rosina — was  sure  to  come, 
heavy-footed,  and  frighten  them  away. 

On  the  day  when  the  last  of  the  hats 
P4 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

had  been  carried  home  and  paid  for — 
six  whole  francs — Angiolina's  mother 
handed  the  child  a  whole  five-centesimi 
piece — that  is  to  say,  a  whole  cent. 

"Thou  hast  worked  like  a  good  child, 
Angiolina;  this  is  for  thee,"  she  said. 

Three  minutes  after,  the  child's 
place  was  vacant. 

Out  on  the  great  square,  in  the  sun 
light,  at  the  foot  of  the  world-famous 
tower,  stood  a  little,  figure,  half-hid 
den  in  a  cloud  of  wings — doves  in  her 
arms,  on  her  shoulders,  about  her 
head.  She  felt  the  tiny  hearts  beat 
ing,  the  shiny  wings  rustling,  the  wee 
feet  clinging  to  her  fingers,  and  the 
bright  eyes  glanced  into  her  own 
shining  ones.  She  had  her  dream  at 
last. 

Some  passers-by  stopped  to  watch 
the  pretty  sight. 

"Look,  Louis!"  exclaimed  a  lady; 
"that  is  the  very  child  I  told  you  of — 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

the  little  maker  of  hats.     See  what  a 
lovely  expression  and  what  eyes." 

Then  a  brown  hand  thrust  another 
cornucopia  of  grain  into  Angiolina's 
hand. 

"Child,"  said  a  man's  kind  voice, 
in  broken  Italian,  "I  will  give  you  as 
much  corn  as  you  like  if  you  will  let 
me  sketch  you  so.  And  if  you  will 
let  me  make  a  picture  of  you  and  the 
doves,  I  will  give  you  a  franc  for  every 
hour  until  the  picture  is  finished.  Will 
you  do  it,  little  one?" 

"Si,  si,  oh,  sif"  Angiolina  answered, 
looking  without  fear  or  shyness  straight 
into  the  stranger's  eyes,  with  her  own 
beaming. 

"Take  me  to  your  home,  then,  that 
I  may  talk  with  your  mother,"  said 
the  young  man,  smiling.  And  drop 
ping  the  rest  of  the  corn,  Angiolina 
all  but  flew  before  them,  so  lightly  did 
her  happy  feet  touch  the  ground. 
316 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

It  can  be  imagined  whether  the  poor 
Chiara  consented,  and  how  the  neigh 
bourhood  gathered  afterwards  to  talk 
it  over  breathlessly. 

"Well,  of  all  the  cleverness!"  ex 
claimed  Paola;  "and  so  bold!  to  plant 
herself  right  there  where  the  signore 
pittore  was  bound  to  see  her.  Every 
day  he  goes  by  to  his  studio.  She  has 
ideas — that  Angiolina.  But  if  ever  I'd 
thought  there  was  money  in  it,  my  five 
should  feed  those  pigs  of  doves  all  day, 
let  it  cost  six  cents  a  day!" 

"The  Angiolina  is  not  quite  a  fool, 
then,  after  all,  Paola?"  Chiara  could 
not  help  saying,  proudly. 

"Hm — that's  as  may  be.  In  my 
mind  he  must  be  a  fool  who  would 
paint  such  a  little  pale  thing  and  all 
those  porks  of  doves, ' '  replied  .Paola, 
with  a  shrug,  retreating. 

"All  the  same,"  confided  old  Luigi 
to  Angiolina' s  mother,  later,  "though 
317 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

she  won't  eat  her  words  to  you,  I 
heard  her  say  to  that  great  fat  Paolina 
of  hers  just  now:  'Go  to  the  Piazza 
to-morrow — do  you  hear,  stupid,  and 
take  Ida  with  you ;  she  has  the  reddest 
cheeks  of  you  all.  And  place  your 
self  where  the  painter  signore  will  see 
you  when  he  goes  by.  You  have  no 
ideas — you!  Watch  that  Angiolina, 
and  do  what  she  does — idiots!'  "  and 
Luigi  laughed  heartily,  while  Chiara 
smiled  with  pride. 

"But  I  tell  you  this,"  added  Luigi; 
"it  will  do  her  no  good  if  she  sends 
all  five;  none  of  them  care  for  those 
droll  ones  up  there — the  colombine — 
unless  it  be  to  eat  them.  Neither  do  I. 
But  the  Angiolina  is  different ;  she  has 
a  heart  like  that  good  Saint  the  Father 
tells  of,  and  it  sees  itself  in  her  face. 
That  is  why  the  signore  wished  to 
paint  it.  And  she  thinks  beautiful 
things  in  her  head,  and  they  make 
318 


A  Wise  Little  Fool 

themselves  with  her  little  clever  fingers, 
and  the  signore  forestiere  buy  them. 
There  is  no  going  against  such,  for  it  is 
the  doing  of  God." 

"You  may  be  right,  Luigi,"  an 
swered  Chiara,  wiping  away  a  tear  of 
pride  and  tenderness ;  "/never  thought 
her  a  fool — not  I." 

And  thus  the  little  fool  became  sud 
denly  the  wise  one  of  the  Piazza;  for 
the  only  way  they  knew  to  judge  be 
tween  folly  and  wisdom  was  by  success. 

The  Piazzetta  is  not  so  very  different 
from  the  world,  after  all. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


J.JPUS   JL.1I5KAKY 

B8JVERSITY  OF  CALIFO 
LOS  ANGELES 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    001  247441    7 


